


Un pietanza per due

by Courtanie



Category: South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And Trash-Talking the Midwest Constantly, Butchering the Italian Language, Cheating, Cooking, Drama, M/M, Slow Burn Romance, Strangers to Friends to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2018-08-09 10:32:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 86,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7798405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Courtanie/pseuds/Courtanie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nestled within the hectic life of the Windy City is a quaint Italian restaurant with a head chef missing the spice in his life and a new busboy who just wants to find a way to feel not so out-of-place in this new world. Together, they begin to find there's more out there for them to enjoy in life than a mere plate of carbonara. Buon appetito.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pop Goes the Diesel

Upon his first day stepping behind the counter, he'd been informed not to worry, that soon enough the pungent stench of gasoline and diesel fuel would fade into the background, that'd it'd be natural as the air he breathed.

He had been lied to.

Kenny's nose crinkled as another whiff hit him with the door swinging open and a tired man stumbling in towards the coffee dispenser. Glancing out his window, he was greeted with the pleasure of seeing yet another brilliant patron missing their plastic canister and splashing the toxic liquid across the pavement before finally realizing that the cylindrical nozzle does indeed fit into the round hole. He sighed, knowing that it was about a fifty-fifty chance that that same genius would barge into his station, demanding that what they spilled be refunded from their overpriced purchase. Kenny would have to stand there in his logoed ball cap tightened too tightly via Velcro around his head, feel the band pressing violently against his skull as the customer would ramble nonsensically. " _Something something_ _get our oil cheap from 'merica n' stop payin' them damn Iraqis to kill our troops."_ Never mind that their petroleum was delivered from their friendly neighbors of the Great White North only a mere twenty-eight hours away in Alberta. But whatever made them feel more comfortable with screaming belligerently at a grown-ass man making $8.25 an hour, he supposed.

With a groan and a crackle of cartilage in his back he stood up from leaning down on his counter, rolling his shoulders and allowing himself a heavy sigh. Eyes the color of the all-too-rarely clear Illinois sky fluttered open, glancing around at his spattering of customers looking just as miserable to be in this hellhole as he was. A woman was carefully picking items from the shelves, muttering to herself about the upcharge she had to endure but knowing she couldn't get those fuel points unless she bought that Advil here. A family of four crowded around the back freezer cases lined with a spectrum of over-sugared soda. He rolled his eyes to himself. No wait. _Pop_. How could he possibly forget all the times he'd been corrected by a corn-bred dweller of the fields of the 'proper' term for carbonated beverages? Either way, Coke and Pepsi were definitely different, despite the poor exasperated father telling them otherwise so they could hurry up and get back on the road to wherever they were headed.

No matter where the destination, it had the Midwest beat by a good twenty miles.

Kenny looked over as his coffee pourer stepped up to the counter, dropping a handful of creamer and sugar beside his cardboard insulated cup to fumble for his wallet. The cashier nodded sympathetically, "That kind of day?"

He laughed in three short huffs, black, thinning hair strewn asunder and sweat stains lining down the sides of his shirt. "Workin' since 'bout three AM." Kenny glanced over towards the digital clock beside his window, reading the blinking 4:56 and realizing in relief for a brief moment that his shift was only four minutes from completion. He shed his own joy and went back to typing in the man's coffee atop his touchscreen register.

"Man, I'm sorry. That's gotta be rough," he said in that practiced retail tone.

"Factories, Man. They tend to forget you're people." Kenny winced and nodded, remembering his own brief stint in a fiberglass facility back home before he'd packed up and moved out east. Thirteen hour days, no air conditioning, and a constant itch from particles that he could never shed, rashes that no amount of lotions could simmer down.

"Least the pay is usually decent?" he shrugged.

"Pay only covers so much," he smirked, dark eyes ringing with exhaustion. "Pack a' Camel Nines, too."

"Pink or green?" he asked as he turned about face towards his display of carefully arranged cigarette parcels. The most vibrant eye-catchers right at the average height line, the best way to convince someone not making eye contact with their cashier that yes, yes they _did_ need that little smoky escape into nicotine dreams. A sneaky little system that Kenny was more than familiar with after trying to quit a good ten times before accepting that the marketing teams were just too damn good for him to defeat and going straight back to his Marlboros.

The man stifled a yawn, a croaking "regular" sneaking out under the expelling breath. Ken nodded, snatching up a black pack outlined with a vibrant magenta lingering towards the bottom of his shelves. Not nearly extravagant and popping enough to earn its place alongside its brethren of Silver Crushers. He swiped the barcode along his scanner, frowning at the glare of the fluorescents above slithering over the plastic-wrapped UPC and blocking a clear reading. He sighed irritably, moving his free hand to shade the box and trying again, nodding stoutly at the telltale tone screaming from the device as it registered onto his screen. He glanced around the counter for missed items, giving him another smile.

"That all?" He got a nod, glancing at his screen yet again. "Gonna be $7.83." He almost shook his head, realizing that these two meager items were nearly worth an entire hour of dredging through this place of inhuman horrors he called work. He held out his hand and caught the Hamilton making way into his palm, the man attempting to drop three cents in along with it and they splashed atop the counter with a clatter.

The man winced, "Oh geez, I'm sorry."

"Hey, Man, don't be," Ken reassured him gently, snagging the coins from atop the counter and entering the amount into his register. "You've had a long night."

He laughed quietly, watching and taking a long sip of hazelnut brew as Kenny gathered his change. "Tell me about it." Kenny handed him back his $2.20, watching the man opt to just shove it and his wallet down into his hoodie pocket and snatch up his smokes with a grateful smile. "You have a nice day."

"You, too, get some sleep," he advised lightheartedly, getting another grin before the man turned to head out of the dungeon and into the streaming sunlight once more. He watched after him, lips quirking as his saving grace stepped around him in an awkward dance and came through the door, looking at Kenny with a deadened glaze to her eyes.

"I forgot I worked until ten minutes ago," she grumbled.

Kenny snorted, leaning back on the counter atop folded arms. "Well, maybe you should actually write down yer schedule like Tom tells ya to."

She pouted, stepping through the waist-high swinging door leading behind the counter and the freshly stocked impulse candy shelves gracing the front-face of the surface. "I thought I did but apparently I had my phone set to last week's schedule."

Ken slowly brought his hands out from under him, very dramatically letting his palms fall against each other time and again in an andante tempo, maintaining a smug, amused eye contact. "Good job, Jess. Want me to start writing them down for ya when it gets posted?"

She rolled her eyes, "Yeah, because you've _never_ misread a shift."

"Once. And it was because the ink smudged," he reminded her dryly. "Either way, I'm outta here." He stood back upright and turned his cap backwards around his head, blonde bangs poking out above the adjustment strap. He quickly went onto his register's home screen, finding his log in/out key. Jess watched him with a sigh as he rapidly punched in his ID and password, hitting that beautiful red-lined button reading oh-so-loudly and proudly 'CLOCK OUT'. With a hum, he pressed it in, letting his finger linger for just a tad and relishing in the freedom that was automatically granted. Eyes sparkled as it accepted his leave, landing back on the home screen and letting Jess scooch him aside to clock herself in. Ken reached under the counter into their mini-fridge hiding in plain sight, snagging an Arizona tea and popping it onto the counter. "Check me out, will ya?"

"I would but you're not my type," she smirked. He snorted and shot her a teasing wink, reaching behind him and grabbing a pack of Marlboro Blacks, menthol and waiting just for him, tossing the box beside his drink and heading out the door back around the counter. Jess quickly scanned over his items as he snagged his wallet and debit card, tapping the plastic against his hand. She looked at him expectantly. "Card?"

"Oh, right," he shrugged sheepishly, snagging his employee rewards card from a cloth sleeve and flipping it over, letting her scan and smirking at the price dropping a whopping ten cents. "Damn, look at me go. I'm gonna save enough for that Porsche before I know it."

"Will you give me a ride to work when you get it?" she chuckled.

He shrugged, swiping his card and inputting his PIN as he shoved his card back into place and slipped the wallet back into his jeans pocket. "Maybe. Depends. You gonna goddamn know your schedule? I ain't gonna wait for ya forever in a car like that."

"Cruel," she smirked, glancing down and finishing up his transaction, both of them looking down at the printer spitting out his receipt tape. Kenny shook his head, the eight-inch paper trail covered with so many promotional shout-outs that his two items were dwarfed within the listing. Jess ripped it out of its hold and held it out, Ken snatching it and his smokes and shoving them both into his pocket with his wallet. "See ya Thursday."

"Oh, you can keep track of _mine_ , but-"

"Drop it, McCormick," she warned, Kenny cackling as he popped the tab on his sweet tea and tipped it towards her in salute.

"All right, all right. I'll see ya then," he nodded, turning on his heel and shoving his shoulder against the door. He stepped out into the sunshine and shook his head, the bright day misleading with the appearance of a sweltering day, finding himself in no more than sixty degrees. He let out a soft 'hmph' before making way to the side of the station, glancing up to the building lingering in the distance and letting out a sigh. Not a long journey home, only around five minutes of walking in fact and one of the primary reasons he'd taken this ridiculously humiliating job. Didn't mean he had to _enjoy_ the five-day-a-week trek back and forth.

A low rumble entered the airspace and he glanced up, annoyed per usual as a plane swooped down overhead. _'O'Hare or Midway?'_ he wondered. He supposed it didn't really matter, either way those poor people were doomed within a handful of minutes to land on the tarmac and head into the hustle and bustle of one of the airports, fighting to hit connecting flights or just trying to navigate the overwhelming baggage claim. Kenny had only been in one of them once, he and his roommate going back home for the holidays two years prior. It'd been a mess, Kenny looking through Midway in awe, dumbfounded by the war memorials scattered about, overwhelmingly paranoid of the SBD Dauntless Dive-Bomber hanging so precariously at the threshold of concourse A. Craig had had to drag him away from reading about the air battles, Kenny morbidly fascinated by the details, confused by the notion that an airport in _Chicago_ was memorializing a portion of WWII taking place at the _Midway Atoll_. But then again history had never exactly been Kenny's strong suit to begin with, so he just let himself gape in admiration at the various statues littering the lounges. After Craig yelled at him to get his ass moving so they wouldn't miss their flight, it'd just been a race to beat their way through the clusterfuck of fellow patrons and get to their terminal so they could get into Denver and pretend that nothing had changed in the years that they'd been gone.

But Kenny knew better. _Everything_ was different from when they finally got the hell out when they were twenty-three. People and places from where they'd left continued pressing on without them, shifting with the tide and destroying the notion that they had held an iota of significance despite their humble roots being so deeply planted in that Colorado soil. But, Kenny surmised, maybe they were being punished for how they'd abandoned their home at the drop of a hat. They'd packed right up and drove Kenny's old truck the fifteen hours from home to the outskirts of Chicago, getting into town and realizing right away that they were far outside their comfort zone. The world was different looking at it through fields of soybean with a skyline lingering in the background, not a mountain in sight. It was almost overwhelming, as though for the first time, Kenny found that the world was just _too big_. There was no cluster, he didn't have ranges painting the sky keeping him in their proverbial box. No, now it was just flat. Flat with an occasional rise of a manmade structure.

After three years, Kenny _still_ didn't know how he felt about where he was. Sure, there was room to breathe, he and Craig making sure to keep themselves out of the heart of the city so they could skip the ridiculous downtown rent and avoid the perilous Southside at all costs… But living on what locals considered the outskirts wasn't exactly a picnic either. It was still an hour and ten minutes by train ride to get into the city, still considered close enough to hike up the price of apartments. It wasn't exactly surprising; they were close to one of the biggest attractions in the Midwest. Where else were people gonna go? Detroit?

But even in a town like he and Craig found themselves in, a deep, _deep_ part of him couldn't help but miss where he'd come from. He knew all his neighbors back in Colorado. Here? Here he avoided anyone that he could manage, a natural skepticism of possible violent agendas keeping him from making a full-on outreach to other renters within their apartment complex. Craig told him that the city changed him, made a boy who was previously a social chameleon into a step above a recluse. The statement was ridiculous considering Kenny had only been to the city maybe on ten occasions in his time living so nearby, every single one of them Tinder dates that refused to do anything but party it up and 'show him a good time'.

How taking bus upon bus and dealing with homeless people panhandling at the train station was 'a good time', Ken would never know. Maybe he just didn't understand the all-too-strange culture of the farm-raised heathens he'd grown up making fun of. Perhaps they considered their offbeat greetings to every ten people they passed to be part of their Midwestern charms.

Whatever it was, Kenny was just not impressed.

He took long, slurping gulp of his sweet tea, licking the sugar off of his lips and humming to himself from the burst of flavor. At least he had _it_ to be on his side. Its purpose was to be bought and devoured, it'd never have to see the light of day again and face the reality that there were people around who called others crazy for not knowing a damn thing resting within the Windy City. Lucky goddamn tea.

He made his way up towards the back of his apartment building, hitting the winding sidewalk running along the front side and turning on his toes, scuffed shoes procuring a grating groan from the cement beneath him as he pivoted. Down the row he strode, edging closer and closer to the midline of the complex and sighing. Craig and he had fought to get in here, both of them lacking a damn bit of a suitable credit score. It was the one time in their lives that Craig was suitably not judgmental, verbally at least, as Kenny laid down his homegrown charms to the leaser. It'd taken three days of living in a motel and two times of Ken going out and 'taking one for the team' as he put it before they found themselves wound up in a discounted lease and conveniently in the home closest to the laundry facilities.

Kenny claimed it was because his dick held magical power, Craig was more than certain that it was just because no one else was willing to fuck someone who ended up screwing people over on their own in the end anyway. Either way, it was livable. Craig could commute to school while his parents sent them money to survive and Ken could snag a job nearby to do all he could to assist them. It was suitable. Not fantastic, but suitable.

Ken made his way up towards the last building on the right complex, snagging his keys out of his back pocket and shoving open the lobby door. He nodded to the grumpy old man sitting behind his glass window at the visitor's booth, getting another nod back before his attention was turned back to the book in front of him. Kenny shook his head. He could swear the man had been reading the same worn-down novel the entire time he'd lived here. To each their own, he supposed. He began tromping up the thinly carpeted steps, careful to not let his tea can slosh his cheap treat all over and find himself with an all-knowing custodian glaring at him next time they crossed paths.

Popping his lips, he hit the landing and made way to the room residing in the left-hand corner, nestled comfortably above and below nothing, and a blissfully vacant apartment beside them. Room number twenty-eight, P.O. box to match. His key slipped into the lock, pressing up pins and activating the tumbler as he twisted. The knob turned with him, Ken twisting to his side to nudge the door askew with his arm, placing a foot into the barrier and sliding his key back out and depositing it smoothly into the old ashtray beside the doorframe. No need for more than one to be used for smoking, Craig had claimed. Would be a waste of money to buy a fucking bowl or key hook. Not that Kenny disagreed but the fact that it was _his_ ashtray no longer being utilized for what he considered the greater good was never one he looked upon easily.

He slipped into the living room and kicked the door shut behind him, assaulted at once with the scent of stale tobacco and wafting marijuana residuals. He'd been paranoid to shit about their habits getting them booted right the fuck out, that notion disappearing when a knock from their landlord had come during a session, both of them waiting to be booked before being asked to hook the old man up with their dealer's number. It was free-game in this complex, Kenny's 'favorite lil leaser' recognizing right off just what kind of tenants they would be and sticking them in what was known throughout the other buildings as the Smokehouse.

Blue eyes swiftly landed on a lounging figure on the couch, MacBook on lap and a cup of hot tea steaming from their Wal-Mart coffee table. "You're home early," he commented, ripping his cap off and tossing it beside their key holder, making way to plop down on the disc chair adjacent to the sofa.

Craig let out a dry noise of acknowledgement, fingers typing away and grey eyes flickering with the light of his word document. Finally, the clacking keys came to a halt as he reached the end of his sentence, constant bored expression slipping upwards to meet the stare of the expectant blonde across the way. "Lecture was cancelled, Holloway is in a conference."

Kenny looked up in thought, running through the vague list of professor names Craig had graced him with sharing. It was an honor to know as much as he did, really. Craig was so standoffish regarding, well, _everything_. "That's your… color correction prof, right?"

He gave a simple nod, turning his attention back to his work and letting out a long breath through his nose, tucking a loose strand of waved black hair back under his cobalt chullo. "Works for me, I have this bullshit to focus on."

Ken rolled his shoulders, reaching down to snag his new cigarettes from his pocket and blatantly ignoring his receipt falling to the floor, knowing well enough that spare piece of paper would drive Craig absolutely insane within twenty minutes. He set his Arizona atop the table and began ripping off plastic wrap, flipping open the top hatch and tearing off foil covering. "Whatcha workin' on? Paper again?"

"Script," he replied tiredly, a hand coming up and rubbing at his eye. He glanced at Kenny pulling out his cancer stick, all at once the sickness of a good three hours of nicotine withdrawal slamming into him. He sighed irritably, grasping at his own pack hiding in the confines of his hoodie pocket, catching up to Kenny's lingering pace. Craig's fingers trailed within his pocket, finding the smooth outline of his lighter and pulling it out, the plastic black covering gleaming in their overhead light. He smoothly lit up, catching Ken's expectant, pleading expression as his hands searched his own pockets. Craig scoffed, tossing him the lighter and watching Kenny eagerly joining his smoky excursion. "Keep better track of your shit."

"Look, sometimes they fall outta my pocket when I'm restockin', it happens," he pouted, teeth lightly clenching around his filter as he slid the lighter back across the table. He allowed himself a deep inhale, a minted kick tickling the back of his throat before letting it all seep back out between his teeth, slumping at once with the allowance of relaxation to take him at long last. He glanced back over to Craig's lazy positioning, giving him a small smirk, "Still with the script, huh?"

"It's an ongoing process," he said with an eye roll. "You can't write a story in a week."

"It's just talkin', ain't it?"

Craig frowned, eyes narrowing in the slightest. "It's not _just_ dialogue. It's screen directions, too. And actor directions. It's a page per minute of film."

"All right, Kubrick, calm your shit," he held up his hand defensively, a small smirk quirking on the edge of his lips. There were oh-so-few things that got Craig uppity and defensive, insinuating that he was going to school just to learn how to shoot YouTube vlogs was definitely one of them.

Kenny always knew Craig would end up in the field he was striving for, since gaining popularity as a school-news cinematographer way back in their elementary years. For over a decade he told him that's what he should do, that it was the major he should be aiming for. Craig adamantly denied that, stubborn streak just refusing to let Kenny McCormick 'dictate his life' as he'd put it. But, before he knew it, he'd found himself enthralled with life behind the camera yet again, begrudgingly applying for program upon program before landing himself a spot at DePaul. Kenny had been at his house when he'd received the acceptance letter, looking up to find that smarmy grin all over his friend's face and telling him to drop it before he dropped him.

Kenny was more than thrilled when Craig offered for him to tag along, both of them wanting to get out of their humdrum life. Besides, Craig needed the additional income. His parents could only send him so much extra pocket change for being their beloved homosexual son. His life had turned into an hour-long commute both ways three days a week, coming home usually to find Kenny playing video games and enduring a ridiculous amount of teasing from the blonde. If he had to hear about how his BFA stood for 'big fucking asshole' one more goddamn time, he'd just live in a box outside his university as he hid from homicide charges.

"So. What's the script about?" Kenny asked casually, leaning forward and ashing into the tray in the middle of the table.

"None of your goddamn business."

He pouted, blue eyes developing an instant sheen that Craig was less than amused with. He'd gotten _way_ too proficient at that for being a grown man. "Craaaiiiig," he whined. "I wanna knoooowwww."

"And I want you to shower more often, but I guess we can't always get what we ask for," he countered, taking another drag of his own.

Kenny frowned, "C'monnnnn I'm your best bud you _gotta_ tell me."

"Oh, I didn't realize you were Clyde Donovan. Clyde, you've changed so much. What happened to you how did you get so much uglier?" he asked flatly.

"Fucking _rude_ ," he scoffed. "Come on, Man. If I gotta deal with you typin' all the time, then you should share with the class."

Craig rolled his eyes and let out a long, irritated sigh. Why oh why couldn't Kenny have picked up a couple extra hours tonight? "It's a guy and his dog and cat. They're goddamn homeless and trying to figure shit out."

"Is it like _Homeward Bound_? Do the animals talk? Is the cat voiced by Sally Field?" Craig looked at him wryly and he shrugged. "These are the questions that matter, Tucker I'm just making sure you have your angles covered."

He shook his head and ashed into a nearly empty Coke can beside of him, hearing the falling ash sizzling out in the remainder of flat soda. "No. Just a guy trying to get them into a place to live."

"That sounds boring," he cocked his brow. "Why are there more animals stars than human?"

"Because animals don't _fucking_ question my creative choices," he bit. "And they're easier to work with if you find one that's trained."

He looked at him warily, taking another sip of his sweet tea, "Don't you need like… a license to film with animals?"

"If I was making a goddamn Hollywood production, yes," he rolled his eyes. "This is a collaborative project with three other people. One has a dog, another has a cat that're both trained. We'll make it work."

"I'm gonna guess it was _your_ idea to work with animals," he smirked. "Since people repulse you so much."

"They don't repulse, they annoy," he argued. "Like a certain asshole roommate."

Kenny placed his hand over his chest and sniffled, "Hurtful. I do nothing but shower you with love and attention and all I get from you is attitude."

"I'd rather have the loving touch of syphilis than you."

" _Wow_."

Craig shook his head at the moping just overtaking the rest of Kenny's features, letting out a long breath before indulging in another inhale of his cigarette. His nose crinkled at the scent of Kenny's menthol filling the room even above his direct source, unable to tolerate the mint sensation for much more than a secondhand experience. He pulled back and blew the residual smoke not trapped in his lungs off to the side. He hated what was about to come next, but he knew he had little to no option otherwise. He rolled his tongue forward, swiping the back of his front teeth as they kept gazes. "Do you work Friday?"

Kenny looked up in thought before shaking his head. "Nah, I work Saturday."

"I need someone to help me get stuff to school."

Ken frowned, face scrunching at the notion of being stuck on that goddamn train for an hour. "Dude what the fuck am I supposed to do while you're in class?"

Craig raised his brow, "It's fucking Chicago. There's plenty for you to do. Just go fucking exploring."

"Exploring ain't exactly my thing," he scoffed. "With my luck I'll look in a store window and someone will burst out and stab me with the glass to take my wallet."

"You're not worth being stabbed. You look like a homeless guy so they'll assume you've got nothing."

"Wow. Thanks," he sneered, taking another puff and letting the smoke seep through his nostrils. "Why do you need me, you never ask for my help."

Craig sighed irritably, "Because I need to take my computer, my backpack, my camera, and a fucking foamboard for some organizational shit for my group. I can't carry all that shit onto the train myself."

Kenny leaned his head back and groaned, shifting uncomfortably in the worn fabric of his thrift-store chair. God. Spending the hours of Craig's lectures wandering around the city sounded like Hell on Earth. Kenny just wasn't built for that life, unable to decipher if the people walking the sidewalk with him were pretentious, high-class fucks for their income levels or nothing more than Midwestern hicks who thought they had it good. But, he also knew Craig. Knew him well enough to know that he only would ask for Kenny's help if he _really_ needed it. "Only if you give me money for lunch."

Craig slid his free hand up under his chullo flap and rubbed at his temple in aggravation. He should've figured. "Fine. Whatever." He snuffed out his cigarette and repositioned his MacBook atop his legs. "We leave at eight."

Kenny groaned louder, flopping in his chair dramatically. There was a reason he always aimed for afternoon shifts. "You owe me breakfast, too, then."

"Fucking _fine_ ," he snapped. "Stop your goddamn bitching already, Jesus Christ."

Ken glared at him, reaching forward and snagging the television remote and his PS3 controller. "Fine. You go back to your fucking furry fantasy script, then." Craig glared at him darkly before redirecting his focus, opting to tune out the blonde moron he was so unlucky to be stuck with to get back into his artistic zone. Kenny clenched his dwindling cigarette in his teeth, twisting in his seat as he watched the Playstation logo taking hold of their screen, turning down the volume. A kindness for a man who was going to make his life goddamn miserable in three days. Kenny took another drag, grumbling under his breath.

Whatever, he supposed. It beat stocking pop.


	2. Tin to Steel

Growing up with nothing more than a couple boxes of VHS' that his fairly absent parents clung onto from the eighties, Kenny had what one could certainly call a _limited_ view of what city life was like from its depiction in media. He had always envisioned it to be nothing but crime every three feet, rude people who would slap the meal right out of your hand, panhandlers who would swipe your wallet and then shove you over for their kids to run up and rip off your shoes before sprinting off down a shady alleyway. Though, he always knew in the back of his mind that that wasn't going to be entirely accurate, that people were more often than not just like himself, overworked and misguided souls just wanting to get through the goddamn day. His skepticism still rang clear, however, eyes darting back and forth between his scattered fellow Metra passengers and clinging onto Craig's camera bag just a little tighter.

Craig himself couldn't seem to be bothered, flipping through his phone, slouched in the seat across from Kenny without a care in the world. Given, he made this trip at least three times a week, Craig knew what to expect. He'd spent the bus ride to their station calming Kenny down from over-paranoid rants of the potential murder scenario they were waltzing right into, reminding him that so long as he wasn't _stupid_ , he'd be fine. Given, he immediately followed that up with a 'well then again it's you so I guess you're going to be shot' and nearly had his camera thrown out the bus window.

Ken winced as the train blew its whistle for the fourth damn time in the last ten minutes, glancing out the window beside the both of them and out towards the roads running parallel to the tracks, the picture distorted by the windows tinted an odd shade of shamrock green. He sighed dramatically, leaning back and shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Why he was so uptight over this trip, he'd never know. Back home out West he was nothing but laid back; hell, he was the same in his and Craig's town, too. But this just seemed outside his comfort zone, knowing that he wouldn't be able to hide himself in a hood without someone panicking that he was on a mission to goddamn rob someone. Something about the situation was just unnerving, if only because he knew he didn't know where he was walking into, and he'd have to find a way to entertain himself for well over four hours while Craig was in his lectures.

" _Just walk the fuck around,"_ Craig had told him as they walked towards their train station. _"You have your phone, you have a goddamn GPS, fucking use it and explore, McCormick, Jesus."_

Easy for Craig to say. Whenever _he_ went out on excursions around the city, he was with a group of others as they scouted locations and learned about different interpretations of culture or whatever the fuck it was Craig had half-assedly told him about. He had meat shields if he needed a quick escape, Kenny had only himself.

A long breath escaped him, moving a bit to readjust the buds nestled in his ears and taking his beaten-to-hell iPod out of his pocket. His eyes lazily scanned over his choices, catching the gleaming crack running across the right-hand corner from when he'd gotten it nearly ten years beforehand and had dropped it while excitedly showing Karen he'd saved up enough to treat himself to it. He smiled a tad, remembering his little sister laughing her ass off as he stared at it in stunned horror, not even _set up yet_ and he'd already managed to fuck it up somehow. But, thanks to what he claimed to be divine intervention, it worked perfectly and had kept on trucking through a decade of consistent use. Thumb scrolling down and down, he finally managed to settle on a playlist of his far-too-upbeat pop songs, the ones that had Craig cringing and telling him to never play near him and his 'refined taste'. How his Indie alternative garbage that could barely stay in-tune was 'refined', Kenny would never know, but whatever made him feel better about himself, he supposed.

A nice, hopping tempo began to vibrate in his eardrums, Kenny relaxing instantly with the sound as the vocal intro played on. A warmth rolled down his spine, finding comfort in the noise blocking out his intrusive thoughts. That was just how he'd always operated: Seeking out noise to surround himself from the bad shit in the world. He liked to keep himself fairly low-key, enjoyed doing little more than listening to others conversing and only occasionally interjecting with a quip. Came from years of growing up hiding himself, he supposed, trying to keep out of sight of abusive parents and seeking safety in the form of a group of close-knit friends. He could blend into them, be considered nothing more than part of the background, and he was perfectly complacent with that; he had to be. He wasn't given much of an option, often passed up for opinions for someone more outspoken, but still managing to feel included nonetheless despite the thin separation between himself and the group. Craig had asked him when they'd moved out East just why the hell he couldn't manage to do that in the city, and Kenny really had no answer for him.

Maybe, he came to figure, it was because the noise wasn't _directed_ towards him. It bubbled around him as though it were trying to make itself known, but it just couldn't reach him. Those words weren't there to for him to partake in, he couldn't get fully enveloped in a stranger's conversation and form his own true opinions like he could with his peers. Eavesdropping could only keep him so situated until he remembered that he had no idea who was speaking, and found himself alone yet again. At least with his friends, even when the discussion wasn't necessarily focused at him, he at least had enough of an in to let himself soak into the marrow of what they meant. They still had him included in their group, never expected him to butt out entirely and was always welcome to give his take. He could weigh ramifications, play out possible scenarios, all just based on the information he'd gathered in their years of companionship. In the city, where everyone cared about themselves and themselves alone… it just wasn't the same.

A jutting figure in the foreground caught his distracted eye, glancing up to see the glassy sides of skyscrapers as their Metra barreled its way towards the Loop. His gaze landed on the Sears Tower, a gaping gray hole torn down the sky into the city with sunlight beaming proudly along its side. Craig had informed him countless times that it was the _Willis_ Tower now, but fuck him. Kenny had grown up hearing it called the Sears Tower, and he'd be damned if he was going to change that for something so menial as a new company lease. It was one of the few things he thought he knew for sure upon moving out East, he wasn't going to let go of that easily.

Kenny gulped, fingers going back to clutching around the items in his hold. His eyes flickered back down towards his iPod and he sighed quietly. Not even Britney could save him from the dread falling over him like hail. Seventy-nine miles per hour was far too fast to bring him down the rails and thrust him into the squabble of urban life, and Craig was doing nothing but stretching and looking out the window in boredom. Very rarely did Kenny feel jealousy over his friend's nonchalant nature, but _damn_ did he wish he could take that portion for just today.

Craig, seeming to sense his tension, slowly pivoted his head, monochromatic eyes staring him down and smoldering into something of an understanding, but annoyed firmness. It was about as close to affection as Kenny ever got from the other. His lips moved, Kenny yanking out his earbuds and blinking at him, stretching his jaw to pop the nestled air bubbles within his eustachian tubes before shaking his head as the sound of the train flooded back onto him. "What?"

"I said _simmer down_ ," he repeated with an eye roll. "Couple minutes and we'll be there."

"Oh goodie," he grumbled, turning off his mp3 player and wrapping his headphone cord back around the device, sighing through his nose as he glanced down out of the glass-bottle window yet again. It'd been somewhat of an astonishment, seeing the grass and trees he associated with home dropping off only about forty minutes into their journey. He knew the urban sprawl of Chicago was _big_ , but even that just seemed a little too quick to be thrown out of a quiet homestead of land into nothing but concrete and the only plant life growing on medians and in parks.

Kenny looked back towards Craig casually gathering his belongings into his bag, gnawing on his lip. "So… when and where do I meet you?" he asked for the fifth time.

Craig sighed, beyond impatient to get his ass onto campus and into the damn café within the lobby. He needed a good eight shots of espresso for dealing with Kenny all morning. "Outside my campus, out front under the main sign on the building. At two fifteen. Can you handle that?"

He nodded slowly, shoving his iPod back into his pocket and adjusting Craig's camera bag around his shoulder. "This ain't gonna be a regular thing… right?"

He shook his head, "No. One of my partners is taking the board to keep since they live a lot closer. This should be it; you don't need to piss yourself or anything."

Ken frowned, ignoring the relief he felt because he didn't need to give Craig _more_ to bitch about. One of the _few_ instances he's not entirely comfortable and he acts like Ken is throwing a toddler-scale tantrum. "I'm not pissing myself," he finally answered. "I'm just not a city guy."

"I know," Craig shrugged lazily, both of them lurching a bit as the train began to slow, hearing the grinding of the brakes two floors below them. "You're not much of an _anything_ guy."

"I'm a sex and a beer guy," he countered. "That's somethin'."

" _Every_ guy is that," he scoffed.

Ken rolled his eyes, "That's generalizing, Tucker. Besides, what about _you_? Yer 'bout as dry as the goddamn Mojave and all you drink is fuckin' _Hemingways._ "

Grey eyes narrowed, Craig shifting back in his seat and crossing his arms, Kenny shaking his head at the tight _Godfather_ t-shirt riding up in the slightest as he leaned. "Well sorry. Didn't realize I was supposed to bring the natural inclination for _Pabst_ with me when we left South Park," he drawled. "Not _all_ of us can tolerate what's nothing more than fucking rat piss."

"Well not all of us can function so flawlessly with a tripod shoved up our ass like you can, either, Craig. Ain't life a wonder?" he rolled his eyes, glancing back out the window as they continued rolling leisurely to a stop, bouncing impatiently waiting for momentum to get its ass in gear and catch up so he could get off the barreling tin can. From one claustrophobic hell to another, he just couldn't _wait_.

Craig watched his leg bouncing anxiously and sighed, "McCormick. Just chill out at the mall or something. There's a bus that stops by school every like ten fucking minutes heading that way, it's a twenty-minute ride to Water Tower Place, and you can just hang out there for a few hours. If you're in there then you won't even know you're in the city."

"Aside from all the signs that are talkin' about 'fabulous' Chicago, right?" he scoffed.

He shrugged, "So? You're not _out_ in the city, so it shouldn't bug you so much."

Ken leaned his head back with a groan, staring up at the metal curved roof lingering above. "Yeah. I guess."

"Be more enthusiastic, McCormick. Please."

"Oh and _you're_ one to talk," he snapped his head back down and gave him a half-assed glare. "I forgot that you're the poster child of energy."

A thick brow hiked in challenge, "At least I explore the city. A fucking _lot_."

"Yeah but it don't count when you're just looking for the best place t' film a fuckin' meet cute."

Craig frowned deeper, "I don't _do_ romance scenes."

Kenny snorted, waving off the pure disdain over his face. "Well, no. Guess you're only s'posed t' write what ya know, right?" he grinned cheekily at another wave of irritation flashing over his friend's face. They both turned their heads at a sudden change out their window, gazing at pillars and carmine support beams underlying the roofs of the platforms. Kenny took a steadying breath, catching Craig shooting him a look warning him to not have a damn panic attack or something and make their departure harder than it needed to be. He stuck his tongue out childishly, Craig merely flipping him off. Odd as it was, the gesture brought a form of comfort to Kenny. No matter what, he could always count on Craig remaining a steadfast asshole. Regardless of what the constant was, it was nice to have _something._

The train lurched gently to a stop, Kenny clutching onto Craig's bag as his counterpart nonchalantly began slipping his backpack on and prepping his foam board. _'Arrived at LaSalle Street Station, Platform 6,'_ an automated announcement sprang over the speaker a few seat behind Kenny. He grumbled to himself, watching Craig move up onto his feet, unaffected from the journey as he gathered his belongings and looked down at Kenny expectantly.

"Well? You coming or are you wanting to get the conductor to escort you?"

"Yeah yeah," he muttered, waiting for him to edge out of their seat space before getting himself up and moving. He glanced at the fellow passengers along the top making their way to the narrow metal steps, Craig casually letting people pass him by to get there first. Like hell was he going to endure fighting with his damn board just for some overly-impatient commuter to shove him down and ruin it. He'd have to throw Kenny at them at that point and leave them both as bloodied corpses on the Chicago streets. Not that he saw many downsides to that notion.

Ken moved over beside him, waiting for Craig to begin moving and trailing behind like a timid child, fingers clutching possessively around the camera bag hooked over his shoulder and chest. Down they traveled along the steps, meeting the crowd slowly beginning to pile out of the wide, open doors and lingering towards the back. Craig swept his eyes shadily to the waiting cluster outside the train wanting to charge in and get their seats. Any of them tried and he sure as hell wasn't going to hold back from shoving them aside. Ken watched his scanning eyes nervously, wondering what the hell Craig was tensed about. They stepped forward as the crowd loosened a bit in density, inching towards the open, noisy air.

Kenny winced as they moved straight out into sunlight peeking from the distance beyond the large gray roof stretched overhead. The world had color once again, no longer stuck in his odd green-glassed enclosure. Craig jerked his head for Kenny to follow him, Ken doing as directed, looking around as his eardrums were assaulted. Ripped from the quiet monotony of the tracks and into the chorus of machinery and loud chatter, he felt a certain whirlwind of adrenalized nervousness sweep over him. "Just keep moving, McCormick," Craig said without paying him a glance.

He sighed, "Yeah I am." Not like he had much of a choice, after all. He and Craig moved to avoid people standing around the platform, making their way towards the main block. Instantly, Kenny felt a sense of relief as he got off of the narrow runway and onto the wider area. Surprise jolted through him, not thinking he'd get _any_ kind of relief on this excursion. He'd take whatever he could get though. His counterpart led him down the way towards the exiting gates, Kenny looking up overhead at the red support structures spanning the entire roof, dangling light fixtures covering every ten or so feet. His eye caught some movement, smirking at a bird's nest resting within a cleanly welded beam. "Craig, Craig," he said, batting at him aimlessly.

"What?"

"Bird!" he pointed up towards the robin making herself right at home, seemingly unfazed by the multitude of humans shuffling beneath her.

Grey eyes rolled dramatically, "We see birds at home. You had one living in your fucking _closet_ for a few days. Probably attracted to the parasites _you_ carry."

"Hey, Mr. Tweedles was _more_ than welcome to chill with my sweatshirts," he pouted. "He was a true bro. Unlike some pretentious assholes I know."

Craig let out an aggravated sigh. Just a few blocks. Just a few and he could turn into his campus and not have to see that dumb blonde head for hours. He led the distracted man towards the exit, stepping through a section of the revolving door, fumbling with his board and trying to keep it from slamming against the glass. Kenny followed in the next division, smirking lightly as he watched Craig struggling to keep himself from fucking up his project. Craig made it out to the front of the station, Kenny close behind and eyes widening as he glanced at the multitude of _happenings_ surrounding them. "Jeez," he muttered.

"Stop actin' like you've never been here before," Craig scoffed, turning on his heel to head left down the sidewalk. Kenny quickly snapped into attention and scurried after him, trying to keep with Craig's quick pace. His fingers dug into his hoodie pocket, glancing around a bit.

"People ain't gonna bitch if I smoke, right?"

"If they do, who gives a fuck?" Craig scoffed. "Just don't fucking suffocate anyone and keep moving. If you keep moving, they can't ticket you."

"Ticket?" he cocked his brow, fingers fumbling to open his pack and snag out a Marlboro and clench it between his lips, hiding his lighter tip from the air with his free hand as he flicked it on. He pulled back as soon as the cherry began to glow, shoving the lighter back down in his pocket and waiting for Craig's response.

He shrugged, trying to keep his board from smacking into people as they walked. "Fuckin' smoke-free laws. Can't be within fifteen feet or some shit of a door."

Kenny blinked, looking to his side as they walked towards the buildings towering over them, trying to mentally measure just how much space rested between himself and the CVS they were making their way by. "Uh…"

"You're not that far," he answered. "Just keep moving and you're fine."

"…What about when waiting to cross the street?"

He glanced over his shoulder with a glare, "Just shut up and _walk_ ," he demanded, turning back around and leading him along the edge of the sidewalk.

Ken frowned, looking at the other people making their way around the city, just as oblivious to him as most other people he'd met. He took a long drag, making sure to direct his exhale out towards the traffic passing them by. He glanced up and behind him, beholding the Sears Tower looming overhead in the distance. He gulped, mind's eye seeing a sway from the lone tubular structure jutting out above its eight counterparts. "Craig?"

"What?" he said, hating having to raise his voice to hear over the traffic zooming past.

"Uh… do buildings move?"

"Yes," he said bluntly. "Calm your shit, it only moves a few feet. If it's stood for _this_ long through the fucking _Windy City_ , then I think it'll survive a damn fall breeze." Kenny frowned, taking another hit of his cigarette and letting it tickle the back of his throat before exhaling in a long sigh. He never realized that apparently the instinct of _survival_ was apparently such an annoying trait.

Craig brought them to the end of the sidewalk, Kenny standing off to the side from the crowd waiting for the light to turn to make way across the street and bouncing anxiously. Craig rolled his eyes, stepping back with him and glancing at him with a shaking head. "Remember when Clyde gave you ten bucks to go into a meth den?"

"Yeah, so?"

"Why did you not care about _that_ but this has you shitting on the street?"

Kenny's nose scrunched, blowing out a stream of smoke against Craig's face and watching the anger flicker through briefly before his eyes returned to their annoyed tone. "I got paid," he said simply. "'Sides, I fuckin' _grew up_ in a meth den. That wasn't a big deal. You learn what to say and it ain't a problem." He paused as the traffic light turned, the two of them lingering slightly behind the group and Kenny doing his best to keep his smoke out of passersby faces. "Don't have a formula for here, ya know?"

He rolled his eyes, "You don't _need_ a formula. And I _did_ pay you. For two goddamn meals. So just take it as that and get over yourself." They hopped up onto the opposite sidewalk, continuing to meander their way down the line. Kenny sighed and nodded, glancing around at fellow walkers as they lead on or diverged off onto their own paths. It was kind of a wonder in a way, seeing how all these people seemed to just _know_ where to go. Kenny knew himself well enough to know that even if he'd lived _here_ instead of goddamn Joliet for the last three years, he _still_ wouldn't know his damn way to anywhere but work and wherever he could pick up his smokes.

His eyes drifted sideways, letting his peripheral keep him moving with Craig as he stared at the buildings lining the way. Stone and glass and steel were mangled together into cohesive shapes, each business boasting that they were 'Chicago's finest'. Chain stores that were stand-alone monsters back in Colorado were condensed and squeezed in-between mismatched neighbors. A clothing store, cell phone carrier, pizzeria, and a souvenir shop all piled in alongside one another in a compressed line, Kenny unable to help wondering just who the hell came up with signing on all of them with the same facing. Whatever worked for them, he supposed. He had a feeling that the turnover rate was pretty high, shuddering at the notion of what their monthly rent could possibly be. More than he'd probably ever hold in his hand at once, that was for sure.

He and Craig made their way across another street, Kenny letting the menthol in his hand calm him down from his shaking frenzy as much as it could manage. He was doing all right so far by his own measure, regardless of Craig's somehow simultaneously monotonous and yet overly dramatic reactions. However, once he was left to his _own_ devices, there were just no guarantees. He shifted the camera bag back in front of him, watching Craig as he made his way along the crowd without the slightest of hesitation. Leave it to the antisocial one of the two of them to be able to maneuver this situation with ease, that kind of logic just seemed to always dictate Kenny's life.

Smoke flew out of his mouth, Kenny sucking back in through his nose, getting a nice rebound hit against his senses. Double the taste, double the flavor. "So how far's your school?"

"Another five minutes," he answered with a stifled yawn. "I told you it's not that far."

"I'd say almost two hours from home is pretty far," he cocked his brow.

A middle finger flew up into his face, "Well I can't goddamn afford to live here," he reminded him staunchly. "And it's not like I'm travelling for goddamn nothing."

Kenny snorted, flicking the back of Craig's neck, "Calm it, Scorsese. Don't need to get all defensive. Much as that shit is costin' ya I would _hope_ it's worth the damn commute."

"More than your fuckin' community college adventures, that's for sure," he drawled.

His face dropped into a pout. "'Least I _went_." His shoulders dropped a bit, a six-year bitterness still ringing deep for being unable to fucking _finish_ what he had started. Thirty out of fifty credit hours completed for a baby step into social work before he'd come to the crushing realization that his little sister had no way to get herself out of their parents' house. He and their older brother had come to the conclusion of dropping whatever expenses of their own that they could manage and pooling money to get her out and into a college of her own. It was worth it; Kenny would never deny that. But that 'what if' still lingered over his head on a day-to-day basis. No, an associate's wouldn't have gotten him more than just his foot in the door, but it wasn't fucking watching a hotdog roller for eight hours.

The two of them finished crossing another street, Craig taking a sharp left and leading him down the way. He glanced back at Kenny's disheartened face and sighed through his nose. He knew better. He knew not to bring up that shit when he wasn't within a few steps of his room to escape Kenny's moping. "You'll go back," he said flatly, same response he always gave in this situation.

"With what money, Tucker?" he looked at him tiredly.

He shrugged, "Maybe Karen will send _you_ through school once she's saved up some money."

"I ain't takin' money from Karen," he bit. "She needs t' take care of herself. 'Sides, she's busy savin' for a _wedding_ ," he mocked bitterly.

"Wedding?" he repeated.

Kenny scowled and nodded, taking his last drag and hopping as he rubbed out his cigarette on the bottom of his shoe. "Yeah, she thinks her boyfriend is gonna ask her after he gets a promotion."

"Don't sound so thrilled," he hitched his brow. Not as though it were surprising. Karen could've found herself with a doting, loving millionaire and Kenny would've still hated them with a passion.

"She's _twenty-three_ ," he drawled, touching the end of the remaining tobacco to check for heat before tossing the filter into a trashcan as they passed. "She needs t'… ya know…"

"Drink and get high like _you_ did at twenty-three? And still do?"

He glared, "No. She just needs t'… find herself still. Without some guy, preferably."

"For Pete's sake," Craig muttered, shaking his head. How Kenny could care so much about her, he'd never know. His own little sister, he didn't even know _where_ she lived. They saw each other two Christmases ago and that was _plenty_ to stave them both through the next five or so years before being forced back into contact. He glanced up, seeing the telltale white stone arches of his building within reach and letting out a sigh of relief. Thank fucking _God_. Craig picked up his pace a bit, Kenny staying on his heels and continuing to gawk around at the sights.

Ken turned his attention towards their destination, shaking his head at the fancy architecture. No wonder Craig came home acting like he'd spent the fucking day sipping wine in a goddamn book club; this all just _screamed_ pretention. Craig came to a stop outside of one of the doors, both of them stepping out of the way of foot-traffic under and alcove. He pointed to the door, "Meet me _here_."

"Two fifteen."

"Right," he affirmed, waiting for Kenny to work the bulky camera bag up and off his shoulder and hand it over. Craig took a long breath, snagging it as he handed it off. "Go down that way and keep heading straight to the end of the block, there's a bus stop. You can't miss it." he jerked his thumb back. "There's a schedule right there. Look and see if there's one for Water Tower Place. If not, use the damn link I sent you and figure out a route. Or just walk into a damn store and find a worker, most of them will help you figure out how to get there."

Kenny nodded slowly, "Okay. But if I die, it's your fault."

"I'll learn to shoulder that burden," he rolled his eyes. "If you get lost, just use your damn phone. This isn't the damn fifties. You have the technology."

"Yeah, yeah," he waved him off, shifting uncomfortably. "Go learn how to make porn artsy or whatever it is you do," he gave a half-hearted smirk.

Craig shook his head, "Don't lose track of time," he said, turning on his heel and heading into his building without another word.

Kenny blinked after him, "Well. Bye to you, too," he muttered, shoulders sinking as he looked back onto the sidewalk. A deep breath expanded his chest, hands shoved down into his hoodie pockets as he waited for a break in traffic to step back onto the walkway. He shrunk down a bit, making way off through the city and gnawing on his lip. He'd never actually been out _alone_ here before, always trailing Craig or some hookup that was far too overcomplicated to justify having mediocre sex. He jerked his head back, flipping sandy bangs out of his eyes and catching the gleam of a bus shelter off in the foreground.

All right. First destination found, not a hitch. So far a flawless victory. Kenny could definitely get behind that becoming a trend today.

He meandered his way up towards the stop, head cocking at the large list plastered on the side of the reinforced plastic. With each step his worry grew, letters taking more of a distinct shape and expanding the options he had to work through. _'Calm down and just read the damn thing before you freak out,_ ' he chided himself. Rolling his shoulders back, he straightened up and struck a confident pose, not sure if he was trying to convince himself or his fellow walkers that he wasn't an idiot who didn't understand public transportation.

He finally stepped up to the shelter, blinking as he scanned over the multitude of options. He worried his lip between his teeth scanning down the list for any W's. Lots of 'Wests', one for the false "Willis" Tower, but none as far as he could tell for Craig's suggestion. He groaned, scratching at his head irritably. Well _now what_?

Peeking a glance at other bus-travelers and their sunny dispositions high enough to compete with Craig's, he didn't think he was going to get any headway out of them. He glanced around at the buildings resting behind the stop, eyes landing on a dark green building standing out starkly from its plaza counterparts, glowing yellow lettering plastering the front. He couldn't help a bit of a smile. Harbucks. Somewhere _familiar_. His lip quirked into a smirk as he turned and set off towards the shop, wondering briefly if he should give Tweek a call back home and ask him for a recommendation of a drink just to hear him launch into an irritated, scattered frenzy over Kenny's corporate choices.

Then again, last thing he wanted was for Tweek to text Craig and tell him to stop letting Kenny drink 'swill' and get a lecture from his roommate. Craig had little to no patience for Tweek's tics anymore, the separation making him realize that life was _much_ simpler when everything didn't need tiptoed around. Kenny disrupting his moments of peace would result in Ken waking up to find all his movies that Craig deemed to be 'amateur shit' tossed into the kitchen garbage. Again.

Kenny shouldered open the glass door, stepping into the coffee shop and taking a long, needed breath of the aromatic room. His brows raised in surprise, finding it fairly desolate considering just where it was. Then again, there was a Harbucks on literally every corner in this city, so it wasn't _too_ shocking. He glanced up to see a brunette smiling at him from the counter, giving a small wave. Kenny smiled back awkwardly, making his way up to the bar and glancing over the menu.

"How are you?" the barista asked politely.

"Uh… alive," he shrugged. The man laughed a bit and nodded.

"Common answer. What can I get you?"

Kenny tongued over his teeth and let out a long breath. It'd been awhile since he'd been in one of these places, the one back home a good twenty-minute walk that he just did not want to deal with. "Uh… can I get a medium doubleshot on ice? With caramel and cinnamon?"

The man snorted a bit and nodded, snagging a clear plastic cup and quickly jotting down his specifications. "That all? Name?"

"Yeah… and uh, it's Kenny," he looked at him skeptically as he handed off his labeled cup to the worker on drink order. He snagged his wallet out, barely hearing his overpriced total as he swiped his card through and stuffed everything back into place. "We good?"

The worker looked down at his register before nodding at him with another grin. "Yep, all set. Need a receipt?"

"Nah, nothin' but trash," he waved it off. He turned and moved to sit down by the window looking out towards the bus stop, pulling his phone out of his pocket and sighing irritably. He tucked his hair behind his ear, waiting for the device to pick up the shop's Wi-Fi before switching over to the page Craig had sent him. He twisted his lips, looking at the variety of routes laid out and rubbing at his temple with a subtle groan. He glanced outside at the sound of squealing brakes, frowning as he watched a group of people piling onto the bus. Hopefully that wasn't his damn ride.

"Where the fuck is it?" he muttered, switching tabs and searching the mall that Craig was apparently so determined to get him to. His lips vibrated as he blew out a stream of air, glancing at the stark red line up towards his destination. Nearly a straight shot up, it seemed. Only about a half-hour walk… he looked up in thought. Well that wouldn't require him to have to fucking decipher this schedule like he was fucking Robert Langdon. That was about four cigarettes worth of a trip, that wouldn't be too awful if he found his path and stuck to it. Probably.

He tapped his foot. Then again, he didn't know what building he was even looking for. It'd probably be easily spotted but knowing him and his not-so-astute finding skills, he could miss it and somehow walk straight into Lake Michigan. At least if he did that he could just float out and not have to think about buses ever again. Silver linings.

He jerked as a figure entered his peripheral, glancing up to see the brunette barista handing off his drink onto the table and blinking in equal surprise. "Sorry, didn't mean to startle you," he laughed quietly.

Kenny simmered and chuckled back, "Sorry, Man. I'm kind of flinchy today."

"Any reason?" he cocked his brow. "You looked kind of lost out there," he jerked his head towards the bus shelter.

He returned the expression, "You just watch people outside?"

He gave a casual shrug, "Not much else to do once you're done cleaning. You need help finding somewhere?"

Kenny paused for a moment before nodding vigorously, "Yeah actually, if you're not busy."

He snorted, gesturing back towards the empty counter and his bored coworker leaning atop of it, staring out the window blankly. "I don't know, looks like we're really hopping." Ken smirked, the worker sliding into the seat across from him and giving him a shrug. "I'm off the clock in like ten minutes anyway and haven't taken my break, so I'm taking advantage. Better out here than sitting in the break room," he chuckled. He nodded in agreement, knowing well enough how that went. The gas station break room was nothing but a desolate wasteland where dreams went to die. At least that's how he and Jess viewed it.

His eyes drifted down to the vividly white and yellow nametag gleaming from his green apron, raising his brow. "Is Chad short for something?"

He blinked before shrugging sheepishly, "Ask my boyfriend and it's short for 'Chad, you dick, help me carry the damn groceries'."

Kenny let out a small laugh and felt himself calming down in the slightest. At least he found someone outside of his stereotypical scope at the very least, odd and giggly as he seemed to be. "So, how the fuck do I get to the mall?"

"Which one?" he questioned.

Blue eyes fluttered, blanking on the name, "Uh… t-this one," he turned his phone and showed him the map pulled up on his screen.

"Oh, you wanna go to Water Tower," he nodded in understanding. "You want to hit the 125 then. It won't stop here again for another hour or so," he shrugged.

He frowned, "So it'd be quicker to walk, then."

"It happens, Man," Chad said sympathetically.

Kenny leaned his head back and groaned. "I'm gonna murder my roommate with a fucking toothpick I swear to _God_."

He cocked his head, "Why'd your roommate ditch you out here?"

"He didn't exactly 'ditch me'," he air quoted. "Captain Douchebag is in classes down at DePaul," he waved aimlessly towards the direction of his school. "Needed help getting shit here so I had to tag along."

"Ah," he smiled a bit. "Not from the city, then?"

He shook his head, reaching over and snagging his coffee to take a long sip. "Joliet."

Chad looked at him with a knowing nod. "I was in the same boat; I would come here to work from Aurora."

Kenny narrowed his eyes in confusion, dropping his straw from his mouth and smacking his lips. "Why the fuck would you commute that far for a minimum wage job?"

He grinned, "Minimum wage is higher in the city. Almost three dollars higher. Doin' the math I still came out ahead with commuting back and forth. Plus, Aurora was pretty cheap to live in at the time."

"Huh," he said quietly. "When did you decide the commute wasn't worth it anymore?"

Chad shrugged sheepishly, "Well that's not exactly what happened. My boyfriend lives in the city and invited me to live with him when my lease was up. Definitely was pretty nice going from an hour and a half trip to a ten minute one to get here."

Ken's face scrunched in distaste, "God, even _then_ how can you stand it? It's fucking crazy here."

"It's really not so bad when you get used to it. I was the same way, Man. I hated having to find my way around here. Almost told him no, but I figured that would've been a pretty crappy thing to do with an offer like that. And he definitely couldn't move out to where I was. But I've been settled in for two years and honestly, I don't think I could fall asleep with silence anymore," he chuckled.

He propped his cheek into his palm, "And I mean, you were living with a tour guide if he's been here awhile. Would've made it easier to adjust, I'd think."

"He has been," he agreed. "But… he doesn't… branch out too much," he worded carefully. "He's busy as hell, so he kind of just goes from work to home."

"Sounds like me. 'Cept I do it because Joliet ain't got shit else to do," he smirked.

Chad gestured out the window lazily, "Well I think you can tell that's not the case here." Kenny nodded, glancing down at his phone and sighing as he looked back out towards the sidewalk. His counterpart tilted his head a bit before clearing his throat, "You know, I've needed to hit the mall for like a month for new shoes. If you wanna wait for a bit, I'll show you how to get there. It can be messy heading up that way," he shrugged.

Kenny snapped his head back around, blinking rapidly. "Dude, you sure?"

He shrugged, "I don't see why not. I have nothing else to do the rest of the day, and last thing you need is to get lost and not even find your way out of the Loop," he chuckled.

He eyed him skeptically, "Remember, I'm poor so if you murder me, you're doin' it for nothin'."

Chad snorted, "I don't think you need to worry about that." He glanced back at the counter before turning back to the blonde. "Give me like, ten minutes to help her clean up and we'll head out. If you're cool with that," he added.

"Yeah. That'd be great, actually," he nodded. "Thanks, Man." Chad smiled and nodded back, hopping up to his feet and heading back behind the bar. Kenny took a relieved breath, switching his phone to his Reddit app and listlessly scrolling through the feed. Good. Second destination could be found with ease, then. And he hadn't been murdered in all twenty minutes without Craig. He took another sip of his coffee and let himself indulge in another calming inhale. So far, a flawless victory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lemme tell y'all bout mah boi Chad.
> 
> He's a fucking joke corrupted_quiet and I have been running into the goddamn ground since a brief mention of a barista in 'Painted in Shrouds'. And I will run this joke over and back up over it multiple times he's very important okay he needs attention. I've actually never done a story where a main character is with an OC as an obstacle so this should be a fun adventure, Chad will make it so.
> 
> #CanonizeChad2k16
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Butter is for Northerners

When he'd first stepped into this office and truly took in his surroundings, holding nothing more than a box containing his laptop, two framed diplomas, and a specially engraved wooden spoon that he held so dear, it'd been a half-lit disaster of a room. He'd been informed by the leasing agent that the previous tenant had a bit of a mutiny by the hands of their employees, having tips swiped from their individual lockboxes and pocketed by their manager. Apparently they'd become so enraged they'd busted down the office door and completely trashed his workspace looking for their stolen funds; dents on the wall from a toppled filing cabinet stood out prominently. Ripped carpet, three broken ceiling tiles, and a busted doorknob had greeted Kyle when he'd first been led through the establishment. But it didn't matter at that point, the realtor could have walked Kyle into an active meth den and he still would've found a way to make the decision work.

Within a mere ten minutes, he'd fallen in love, completely head over heels for the staggered half-brick masonry crawling up the then-white walls. He'd become enamored with the Tuscan-style pillars lining the ceiling, the shuttered arch-top windows spilling sunlight and the life of the city onto barren Santos mahogany flooring. Padded booths were in desperate need of repair, years of wear and tear against the vinyl coating had begun erupting foam stuffing like little Mount Etnas scattered about. Not that Kyle minded, he had a far classier plan for them anyway than the odd hue of blue that the previous owner had dubbed their mainstay color. The dining floor had swept him off his feet with dreams of what it could be.

But the kitchen, oh the _kitchen_ is where he found himself carried away, where he knew the realtor would have to drag him out to tear him from the marvel he found waiting for him. Seated behind a stone and charcoal granite bar laid a sight to behold: 600 square feet of pure stainless steel appliances and Brunswick brick lining the walls, eight four-burner stovetops separated by floating trays just begging to be set aflame, become a spectacle for eager patrons to watch their chefs work. Matching granite workstations were scattered about, the perfect breadth for individuals to craft and not be neck and neck with one another. A massive double-shelved brick oven overtook the left half of the room, soot piled around the inner sides from years of use, Kyle brimming with how it could look once he took the time to get it properly prepared for its next go-round.

It was a steal, the damage of the office lowering the price just enough for Kyle to worm in his business loan budget and do the necessary redecorating so desperately needed. Only $4200 a month for a prime Loop location, just within scope of the river, close enough for nighttime lighting to shimmer off the water and reflect back into his wide, open windows. He was guaranteed a natural gorgeous view for customers each night, something that money just couldn't buy all on its own, and all the more reason for Kyle to spend the customary waiting period after putting in his offer staring at his phone in trepidation. After all, as his mother had told him time and again after he'd called her with the news, he couldn't get his hopes _too_ high. A first time owner was a lot of risk for a company, and nine out of ten independent businesses failed within the first year, most of them restaurants. He was fresh out of college at twenty-two. He was young, not a Chicago native, someone that people may feel was suited better for working at an _Olive Garden_ for the time being. The notion had disgusted him, being tied down to corporate chains that focused more on their profits than on the quality of their food, opting to say that _microwaved was good enough_. He'd rather _die_.

He'd been kept in agonizing anticipation for nearly five days, hope beginning to wither and his roommate coming home and finding him slumped on their couch staring at the ceiling in despair, watching him down bottle after bottle of Brachetto as the third day had passed into the evening hours. Kyle would bitterly laugh how his _maestro cuoco_ would be berating him for drinking _northern_ wine, all the while dramatically begging if he lost this building for Stan to drown him in the lake. Stan could do nothing but awkwardly pat his head and tell him to ignore his mother and keep hoping, cringing at the drunken Italian curses that would spill out of Kyle's mouth fast enough to wind them both.

But, his saving grace had come at 2:18 on a clouded Friday afternoon, Kyle hearing through his buzzed haze the beautiful words " _You've been approved, Mr. Broflovski"_ and nearly tripping over their coffee table as he leapt to his feet in pure joy. The following Monday, he'd dragged Stan with him to gather paints and get his keys, for the two of them to start building Kyle's dream before he'd have to resort to contractors down the line. Booths were re-stained to compliment the flooring, refurbished with wine-shaded fabric cushions to match the plethora of padded dining chairs ordered, delivered, and stacked against the far wall for days on end while they toiled. Walls were repainted to a deep, rich basil; lights were suited with dimmer bulbs to combat the blaring set-up from the previous owners who apparently had no perception of what constituted as dining worthy of this location. Kyle couldn't help a small, secret thrill out of taking the building from a pizzeria, knowing that at least _now_ patrons could come here to get themselves some _real_ food.

Stan would come in and out as work allowed him, but Kyle found himself practically living in his new home away from home, one night Stan coming in to find him draped over a prep station he'd been cleaning, snoozing away. Kyle finally understood the phrase of blood, sweat, and tears, finding himself on a constant edge as his grand opening loomed within the approaching distance, still a pinpoint on the horizon but steadily dripping towards him like thick oil. It was a thrill and a terror all at once as he had worked with contractors to design and secure his wine racks, as he began the hiring process, finding himself having to learn how to talk like the boss to people thirty years older than him just needing a waiting job, taking measurements and ordering uniforms and starting to bring in hundreds of bottles of wine and begin stocking up on his dried ingredients.

He'd found himself becoming _terrified_ as the opening was a mere week away, holding a jar of olives as he waited one morning to greet and train his kitchen staff, seeing the pure fear evident in his eyes. He'd rushed to his computer and shot off a hasty email, rambling to his teacher in Taormina awkwardly about how he didn't know why his instinct was to message him, but he was scared he'd fuck everything up and find himself working at the local _Bravo!_. After spending six hours working with his staff and bidding them a good night until he'd see them the next day for more orientation, he'd opened his email to, surprisingly enough, find a reply with only one line: " _Ricordare, senza burro, bambino cuoco!"_

It'd been the push he'd needed, finding himself near tears and grinning stupidly for twenty minutes at a simple reminder to not use butter. After all, butter was for northerners. He was trained _properly_ , knowing that such fats were reserved for making pastries only. But if his maestro cuoco felt he only needed _that_ as a tip, then there was more faith in him from a man over five thousand miles away than from his own parents on the East Coast.

It was a nightmare and a dream rolled into a tumultuous ball of yarn, fraying and littering the ground with fibers as it went, but it was worth it for the end product. And never was that more evident than while sitting in his office, barely able to hear the bustling of his chefs as he doted on his paperwork and contacted his vendors, smelling spices and oils seeping in under his door from the kitchen just outside his barrier. Ambient calmness enhanced by the echo of happenings just feet away from him beyond the wall, his work all culminating into sitting by himself in _his_ office.

Four years had gone by of business staying steady, word-of-mouth much more powerful than he ever thought it could be. When he had reached his start, he _never_ thought he'd have to add ' _Reservation Only_ ' to his advertisements and the paint on his front door. But only a year into the business, he'd had to make that call. His leasing agent had ended up dropping by the day he'd been contracting an artist to make the notation on the door, getting himself a nice congratulatory handshake and awkwardly laughing as the woman rambled on about how angry she was that her agent had signed him in the first place, now more than glad they'd taken the risk. Of course, Kyle had thought bitterly, because she could easily raise his rent with profits doing so well without risk of having to start over with another business.

But, Kyle minded little in the end. As far as he could see, he was stable, he was happy, and his dreams were right where he wanted them to be. Life was just, for once, _good_.

Well, aside from the number staring back at him from his computer screen. Vivid green eyes narrowed as he scanned over the total of a shipment making way towards their store. "What the _fuck_ ," he bit. "Why are they shorting me on fucking polenta?!" He sighed irritably, tapping his finger against his desk and gnawing on his tongue. He had a few options. He could take it off the menu once they ran out, just keep it on standby until a new shipment came in. There was always the option of calling the company and losing his shit at them, but… he eyed the invoice address and let out a frustrated breath. They were one of his best vendors, he couldn't risk pissing them off and lose some of his favoritism he'd managed to snag over the last few years. He leaned his head back and groaned before snatching his pen and a pad of sticky notes from beside his monitor, sighing once more as he made a quick note to stop at a grocery store and scavenge around for a few bags of his cornmeal.

A knock erupted at his door and he glanced at it, "Yeah?" he called, continuing to scribe. It opened and a brunette popped her head through the space, looking at him guiltily. He looked at her again and raised his brow, "What, Heidi?"

"If you're not too busy, can you come help us out here?" she winced. "We have a bit of a back-up going on."

He blinked before tossing down his stuff and ripping his green bistro apron off the back of his chair. "Stop sounding guilty when you need help," he lectured, tying the strands back and wrapping them around front of his slender waistline, securing it tightly in front of him. "I'm not here to just stare at papers."

"I know, I know," she smiled tiredly, watching him snag his head wrap from his apron pocket, laughing silently as he struggled to flatten ample carmine curls under the fabric. He tucked up what strands he could, wondering for the nth time why he hadn't just gotten a toque yet as he followed his sous chef out into the hustle and bustle of his kitchen.

He grumbled, finally managing to tie it at the back of his skull and stepping towards the dish sink to wash off his hands. He rolled up the heavy sleeves of his jacket and gave her another quick look, "Whatcha need?"

"Just some prep," she elaborated, "Butters is having trouble catching up to the salad orders for a large party."

"On it," he nodded, getting a grateful smile before she turned and hurried back towards the stoves to keep up her own work. Snagging a clean towel from the top shelf and drying his palms, Kyle glanced over to see his blonde pantry chef struggling at the large vegetable prep island to keep up, rolling his eyes a bit as he hung the towel and briskly made his way to the overwhelmed man. He stepped up beside him, reaching down and snaring one of the held chef's knives from the side panel of the table. "What're we doing?" he asked.

Butters blinked up at him from chopping carrot slices and gestured to the array of bowls on his countertop. "Lotsa people want salad," he smiled meekly. "I-I'm tryin', I just can't-"

"Don't say you can't, that'll only slow you down," he cut him off. "Everything washed?" Butters nodded, Kyle reaching past him and snagging three heads of romaine. "Just keep moving and everything's fine," he said calmly, digging his knife halfway down into the first batch of lettuce and slicing it lengthwise. He quickly repeated the motion time and again, keeping the greens turning and making his marks a mere inch apart. Butters stole looks at his process as he kept julienning his carrot slices, watching Kyle swiftly turn the lettuce back front and clamp his free hand down atop the core. A gleam hit Butters' eye from the dangling overhead light as the blade slashed through the top of the leaves at an angle, a quick shift moving to the opposite side and repeating the motion to leave Kyle with a pointed figure to bring his knife through in a third sweep. "Keep chopping, Butters," Kyle said without losing concentration, repeating the three-step process time and again until he hit the hard white substance of the core, tossing it into a wastebasket on a shelf under the station.

"I'm sorry," Butters murmured shyly.

"Don't be," he gave a small laugh. "You think I never fall behind in this shit? You have twelve salads, Man, that takes time." He rapidly moved to his next head of lettuce, finding his rhythm and letting his knife take the quick-blazing trail of its own. It was as natural as breathing to him, able to so effortlessly let his blade become a part of his hand.

Moving on to his third piece, he stole a glance at the man trying to keep pace with him, shaking his head lightly. He could just read the maestro's words again, _"without butter_ ". It probably wasn't supposed to be meant to apply to _people_ , but Kyle couldn't help but wonder if he should've shown him the door as soon as that nickname caught on a few months back when he'd first walked into his kitchen. He couldn't exactly fire someone for their goddamn _name_ , and, to be fair, he couldn't have known that's the route it would take. But superstition apparently ran deep in him, something he didn't really know until he'd been presented with this particular predicament. _'Just don't let him be what ruins the taste of this place,'_ he prayed as he finished the third head, tossing the core into the trash and moving to distribute his pile of leaves into the ivory salad plates.

"Wouldn't it be easier t' just _buy_ sliced carrots?" Butters questioned. Kyle paused and shot him a look, his employee cringing a bit and looking back down at his work.

"Easier, yes," he agreed. " _Correct_? No. We don't half-ass shit, Butters, you know that." He turned back and hurriedly continued piling the plates, eying them for equal distribution.

They both glanced up at a waiter hurrying up towards their table and shaking his head, "Scratch four of these. They want the caprese instead."

"Got it. Thanks, Jason," Kyle nodded, pushing four of the plates off and to the side of the counter, turning on his heel and heading towards his vegetable pantry to rip open, eyes scanning until landing on a shelf of bright red beaming at him. He snagged one of the shallow plastic bowls kept piled on the counter beside the cabinet, pulling down ten tomatoes from their hold and handling them with care as he placed them into his container. He grabbed an oil dispenser, turning and toeing the wooden pantry shut behind him. Biting the side of his tongue, he rushed over towards the vegetable sink, grasping tomatoes two at a time to rinse under chilled water, fingers delicately scrubbing any residue his sharp eye managed to catch, setting them on a resting towel atop the steel surface. Shutting off the water as his last was dubbed up to his standards, he snagged another towel, very gently patting the fruits dry and dropping them back into his bowl with his oil set angled up within the container. He turned on his heel making way beside him to the massive double-doored refrigerator.

A chilled blast slammed into him to combat the heat of the multitude of burners and his brick oven firing away on either side of the room, Kyle scavenging until finding a container of mozzarella and a baggie of basil. He plopped the bag down into his bowl and picked up his materials, moving to head back to his station.

"Comin' behind," he called at a waiter rummaging in the pantry for extra oil for a table, slipping behind them with a smooth pivot of his heavy, non-slick shoe. He stepped back beside Butters, making quick work to wipe down his knife with a hanging towel and rid it of its romaine residue, reaching and grabbing four plates from the chilled hold under the countertop. Gently, he placed them apart on the countertop, gripping the handle of his sharpening steel beneath him and pulling it out of place. Butters watched a bit as he carefully and swiftly handled his knife, the blade scraping over the rod with a _shling_ time and again. Kyle set the tool aside and wiped off his knife yet again, gripping a tomato and slicing through in thick slices crisp and clean as sunlight cutting through a countryside.

"Kyle!"

"Yeah?" he called back, not looking up as he continued to work his way through the next rounds of fruit. His eye flickered to his pastry chef hurrying towards him with a spoon in her hand. "What's up, Annie?"

"I used that new uh, new whipping cream we got for the pizzellas?" she looked at him in a bit of a panic.

He nodded, moving to set his sliced tomatoes neatly around his plates, "Okay, and?"

"I just noticed that it's _sweetened_ , and I already added my extra sugar," she cringed. "Taste this." Kyle glanced at a dollop of pink, fluffed cream settled onto a spoon, her hand held underneath of it. He moved forward and took the taste from the metal, face twisting a bit at the immediate influx of sugar splashing over his palate. Annie's shoulders sunk a bit, wishing that it was just _her_ that'd tasted such a difference in the taste of his recipe.

Kyle swallowed down the almost sickening strawberry confection, smacking his lips. "Lemon," he said firmly. "Get a lemon, squeeze half of it in there. If that's still not enough, add the other half until you get it closer to how it should be."

She nodded briskly, turning on her heel and heading back to her station, tossing his tasting spoon into the dish sink as she passed and he went back to his capreses. He finished rounding off each plate with the bright fruit beaming off of the neutral plate tones, snagging his oil and drizzling it rapidly over each in a zig-zagged line. Free hand blindly reaching beside him, he grabbed his basil bag and tore it open, eyes fluttering as he dragged it in front of him and found himself assaulted with the heavenly, sweet aroma splashing over him at once.

All at once he went on autopilot as he moved it to chop for his salads, remembering the painstaking activity of growing his own in Taormina, the five weeks it'd taken for the purest green he'd ever laid eyes on to finally bloom for use. He'd been beyond proud of that little plant growing on his maestro's windowsill in his office, using the two handfuls he'd managed to grow to make his first batch of pesto from scratch. It'd been one of the few things that he knew he couldn't bring from there to here, knowing that the Midwestern weather wouldn't permit him to grow his own herbs without having to shell out the money for a heated greenhouse. The closest he could get was nearly daily trips to the farmer's market to snag their freshest selections that the owner put back just for him for his patronage. He smiled fondly, imagining the dining floor of his restaurant expanded outwards by just a few feet, placing in large windowsills where he could grow an array of basil and parsley and oregano, let the customers waft in the same celestial scent as he did daily so many years ago.

Humming to himself contentedly at the memory, he grasped his container of mozzarella, tearing it open to the creamy log and plopping it onto a clean section of his cutting board as he pushed the basil aside with the back of his knife, hurriedly wiping off the green residue.

He glanced up at Butters hurrying to finish the salads, nodding approvingly. "You doin' all right?"

"Yeah, thanks," he nodded with a smile, sprinkling shredded parmigiana over the salads before turning to head towards the stoves and get into one of the ovens set aside for him.

Kyle shook his head amusedly, moving and slicing piece after piece of his cheese. _'At least he tries_ ,' he thought tiredly. Better than his _last_ chef he'd had to let go, a pompous Englishman who _loved_ to go on and on about his grade point average of all things. From _business_ school. Kyle had had to step away from a simmering marsala after a near fight broke out between him and the grill chef, Kyle gently coaxing his griller back to his station before demanding for the other to follow him into the office. Kyle had never fired anyone before, but spending ten minutes talking to Gregory more than convinced him that he didn't need that kind of _attitude_ circling his building and making his chefs uncomfortable. Besides, Stan had wanted Kyle to fire him for _months_ after Gregory decided to hit on his girlfriend when they'd stopped by to see him and one of his waitresses. He'd tried to make it civil, telling him that _he_ didn't go around bragging about his own grades from _both_ of his majors, so he shouldn't either. The very second after Gregory shrugged so dismissively and asked him if numbers really mattered when all he did was learn to cut vegetables, Kyle took his chef's jacket and cap and sent him packing. It worked on all levels; he made his employees happy, made Stan happy, and he got a worker in that was willing to learn, which was really all he could ask for in any of his cooks.

Kyle laid his mozzarella in carefully designed patterns around the tomatoes, giving each plate a nice dose of basil and eying the presentation, nodding to himself as he reached down to snag his salt and pepper mills to sprinkle over his creations. Butters came hurrying back up with oven mitts, carrying his tray of house-baked croutons, a plastic spatula sliding under batches at a time to distribute among the leafy dishes. "Gosh, I hope they're not sore it took a lil' while," he commented while he worked.

He waved him off, "Nah. They're in a big party, they know it'll take a little longer. Besides, that keeps 'em distracted. It's when you get the _couples_ and you run behind that you gotta worry." Butters let out a small breath of relief at the reassurance, finishing doling out his bread. Kyle bent down towards the mini-fridge resting under the counter and tore it open. "What dressings?"

"All house."

"Thank god," he murmured, knowing it'd be a nightmare to work out otherwise with an order change. He snagged his dispenser of oil vinaigrette and stood back in place, reaching over and beginning to douse the salads. It was a recipe it'd taken him months to perfect, Stan telling him if he didn't make him stop being a guinea pig for fucking _salad_ he was going utterly carnivorous and leaving him on his own to figure out the right combination of seasonings. Stan just would never understand how important the right blend of spices was, how much give and take he could afford to work with. Bakers never did. They were far too precise and by-the-book; definitely not Kyle's style unless it was related to paperwork.

He and Butters glanced up at Jason hurrying back to them as Kyle finished coating the dishes, looking at them expectantly. "We good?"

Kyle nodded, the waiter turning behind him and snagging two large carrying trays, the both of them beginning to load the sides as closely as they could afford to. "Any runners?" Kyle asked.

He shook his head, "No, Red called off, we're pretty short-staffed out there."

"Right, right," he nodded, leaning his head back away from the food and pulling off his head wrap, shoving it back into his pocket and grabbing one of the loaded trays. "Lead the way," he nodded as his waiter grabbed the other, smiling gratefully before doing just that. He took Kyle on the pathway out of the swinging door between the food and wine bars, leaving the blaring lights of the kitchen into the calm, dimly lit setting of the dining floor. Kyle's eyes scrunched a bit as they tried to adjust on a dime to the utter darkness compared to where he'd emerged from, following along to a set of tables shoved together for the large party. He couldn't help but smirk at Jason, knowing well enough he was _thrilled_ with imagining just what kind of tips he'd be getting from helping such a large crowd.

"These four have the caprese," he noted, gesturing to the four along the end of the table. Kyle plastered on his managerial smile for them, delighted in the relaxed, chipper tone surrounding his establishment. He carefully slid their food in front of them from the side, trying not to get far too into their personal bubbles.

He smiled a little wider at a happy sound coming from one of the patrons, always more than glad to _hear_ just how excited they were for his food. He rarely got to hear such anymore, being confined in his office and kitchen. But he got to hear comments passed on by his wait staff, and that worked plenty well enough for him. He continued around the table, meeting Jason at the middle as they laid down their last plates, straightening back up and Kyle taking the other's tray to return to the kitchen. "This is the head chef I was telling you about," Jason said offhandedly, Kyle raising his brow slightly at him before smiling at the group still.

One of the men leaned forward a bit and looked at him, "You're a lot younger than I would've thought. Way he was talking we pegged you for fifty."

Kyle laughed politely, "Still a while to go before that."

"He said you're the only one that speaks Italian here," a woman beside him propped her chin up on the back of her hand and the table watched him expectantly.

He inwardly sighed, making sure to keep that grin plastered on. Every damn time. " _Sì_ ," he nodded.

"Well, say something, Kyle," Jason elbowed him lightly with a smirk, knowing well enough how much Kyle _hated_ people asking him to speak in Italian if he could avoid it. But they'd opened the door, he wasn't about to pass it up.

Kyle gave him a slightly unamused stare before shrugging, " _Si otterrà un abbassamento di livello se non si impara l'italiano_."

The woman clapped softly with a sound of amusement. "What does that mean?"

He smirked, giving another innocent shrug. "He's getting a demotion if he doesn't learn his own Italian."

The table broke into laughter and Jason pouted, "How can I be demoted? I'm already at the bottom."

Kyle reached up and patted his shoulder lightly. "I'll find a way. _Spero che tu sai meglio ora_." He turned to the table and smiled again at the guests, "Let me know if you need anything. _Buon appetito_ ," he gave a subtle nod before turning on his heel and heading back towards the kitchen, feeling Jason watching after him with studiously narrowed eyes, trying to decipher his last message. Kyle turned the corner, towards the short corridor to the kitchen, lingering in the doorway for a moment and glancing back out onto the dining floor.

He held the trays with extended arms against his torso, eyes gliding over the faux olive leaves and vines crawling along the walls and ceiling pillars, the soft glow of strung discount holiday lights wrapped within them illuminating the room in stacked, subtle shadows. His sight drifted out the uncovered window directly across from him, seeing nighttime settling beautifully over the water, the dancing lights against the waterfront reflecting onto trees and the sidewalk, a warm feeling of complacency burrowing itself snugly in his chest. His smile turned fond, hearing the pleased murmurs surrounding his floor, the clatter of silverware against plates and bowls and the clinking of wine glasses.

It was his. All of it was _his_.

He let himself relish for just a few more moments before standing back up with a happy sigh, making way towards the _other_ end of his happy spectrum: the pure, stunningly blinding chaos of his kitchen. Either way, no matter the side, he was more than glad to bask in their separate glows.


	4. Benefits with Friends

Maybe, Kenny pondered, just maybe, he'd be better off trying to learn how to survive in Thedas than he would in Chicago. Listlessly, his thumb pressed against the rigid, worn rubber of his thumbstick, eyes watching with a dull gleam as his character sped forward in the odd hip-jaunting fashion that always made him wonder how his Warden didn't throw her goddamn back out. A quiet grunt left his lips as he settled back down into his disc chair, wincing as the back rivets of his jeans snagged the fraying faux-fur material, feeling fibers rip out as he shifted. He groaned to himself, glancing down at the patchy navy material and shaking his head. Well. Considering it was a Goodwill steal from when he and Craig had first moved in, he couldn't say that he was too shocked it was starting to come apart.

He swung his leg up and over the side of the chair, slouching down and letting his head fall back over the edge of the seat as he stared at their television, ears perked for the telltale music of the darkspawn as he pressed onward. He snagged his Dr. Pepper can from the coffee table, taking a long swig and sighing as it fell from his lips. The carbonation danced pleasantly on his tongue, teeth clicking together as his game continued on, just hovering above the sound of Craig's keyboard clacking. With great care, he balanced the can atop his stomach, gripping his controller once more as he shifted the camera angle around the barren lands for places to explore.

"Don't you have anything else to do?" Craig asked, eyes never leaving his screen as he reached forward and snagged his coffee, taking a long, steaming sip.

Kenny scoffed, "Like what? _Discover my inner artiste_ like you?"

"Artistes are performers," he rolled his eyes at the insinuation. "If you're going to attempt to be condescending, at least do it correctly."

"Still got under your skin, didn't it?" he mocked. "'Sides, fuck off, I had a long shift."

Craig hummed with great disinterest, fingers going back on their wordy mission. "So hard to stand there and stock bubblegum, huh?"

"Harder than sittin' around bein' told how to point a fuckin' camera," he countered, smirking as he felt stony eyes lifting from the glowing LED screen and honing in on him. "Whoops, sorry. I strike another nerve there, Spielberg?"

He shifted back into the couch cushions and scoffed, "Spielberg is too cutesy and family friendly."

Kenny snorted and shook his head, catching the view of a group of bandits and pivoting to lead his party towards them. His character stood at the back, unleashing arrow upon arrow and watching the momentary lag and hilarious injured grunting noises of his victims with a grin. "How is _Jaws_ fucking family friendly? Or fucking _Schindler?_ Like, fucking hell, never have kiddos, Craig."

"Trust me, no worries there," he scoffed. "And two out of so many he's been involved with doesn't fucking count."

"He did that stupid army movie, too," he commented, licking over his teeth. "You know… Tom Hanks to the Rescue or whatever it was called."

He cocked his brow, " _Saving Private Ryan_?"

"Yeahhhhh that'n," he confirmed, nodding a bit with pride as he watched his dog companion finish off the last of the bandits.

"Cheesy," he declared with a scoff. "Hanks died for no reason."

"It was war, Man. He was kinda ya know… doin' his job? Protectin' the country and helpin' his brothers or whatever?"

He rolled his eyes once more, looking over at Kenny's screen as he looted about. "Thanks, Uncle Sam. Only good part of that movie was the opening battle."

"You _would_ like that part only. Careful or you'll cut yourself with that edge, Bro," he smirked.

Craig shook his head, rubbing his temple and letting out a long sigh. He really needed to get better lighting in his room so he could just fucking work in there. He watched Kenny's character jauntily running around, hearing murmured dialogue in the background and picking his coffee mug back up. "Why do you have a dog?"

"Because he's amazing," he said, nose stuck up in the slightest. "His name is Valefor and he's a mabari and he loves me. I'm pretty sure he loves Velanna more though which is _bullshit_ since he's goddamn _mine_. Apparently the fuckin' Dalish are his secret buddies or some shit."

Craig shrugged, the response just too easy to ignore. "Well, just goes to show you you'll never find love in real life _or_ a game. Even from a dog."

"Fucking _wow_ ," he pouted. "Why the fuck am I still friends with you?"

"I wouldn't know. I've been trying to get rid of you for years."

Kenny scoffed, taking another sip of his soda and rolling his shoulders, tilting his head and letting his neck crack under the sounds of his game. He continued moving his character on, face falling back to its relaxed state. "You ain't been tryin' _that_ hard since-" he paused at a ding and a vibration from his pocket. He set his can down back on the table and struggled to maneuver and grab his phone from its denim confines. He slid open his screen, cocking his brow in slight surprise at a new message.

**Chad G**   
_'Hey :)'_

He blinked. It'd only been two days since the excursion through the city's _far_ too massive mall. Kenny had given Chad his number due to an offhand suggestion of him showing Ken just what the hell was enjoyable about the bustling urban nightmare. He'd only tried a few sentences of arguing the notion before Chad's friendly smile and casual nature just wore him the fuck down. His nerves had been frayed enough, and the guy _had_ managed to keep him from getting lost and killed, so his number, he supposed, was the least he could really do. He shrugged to himself a bit, typing back, thumb flying across the touchscreen without the slightest bit of thought.

**Kenny M** _**  
** _ _'hey. sup?'_

Craig watched him with a hint of curiosity, sipping away at his Spanish roast. "You don't have friends," he said point blank.

Kenny looked over at him and gave a small huff of a laugh, "What?"

"Who the fuck is texting you? Karen or Kevin?"

He smirked and gave a small shrug, "Maybe I _do_ have friends, Tucker. You don't know who I meet in my oh-so-fascinating job. People goin' in and out all the time, could have a whole _cult's worth_ of buddies that I just don't tell ya about. Wouldn't wantcha t' get _jealous_ or nothin'."

He rolled his eyes, fingernail tapping against the ceramic with the imprinted clapboard, a hurriedly found birthday gift from Clyde after he'd realized his calendar was a week off. "Please," he said flatly. "All you do is bitch you don't know anyone."

Kenny paused, smiling awkwardly. Well, he had a bit of a point; he _did_ have a tendency to lie around griping about the lack of anyone to go out with. "It's that guy I met in Chicago. That Chad dude."

"The Harbucks guy?" he looked at him, eyes scanning up and down for a hint of a pathetic attempt at a joke before getting a confirmatory nod. "Why is he texting you?"

"I don't _know yet_ , Craig, all we've said is 'hi', damn. Didn't realize you were my mother."

"Well, someone has to be."

Kenny's face fell, brow furrowing at him and voice dropping down a full octave. "Low blow, Dude."

Craig paused, blinking and clearing his throat, taking another sip of his coffee. Kenny's parents were an awfully touchy subject; they always had been. He liked to keep their bullshit as far from his memory as he could possibly manage. "Sorry," he murmured from the rim of his mug before placing it back down, making sure to avoid his stare for the moment as he focused his attention on the simplistic task.

Ken broke his glare as his phone dinged yet again, pausing his game and clicking his tongue as he waited for the years-old electronic to get to its fucking destination. Why were upgrades so goddamn _expensive_?

**Chad G**   
_'Quick question and maybe a little weird but wanted 2 know if u wanted 2 see more of the city? My hours r kinda low so I'm looking 4 things 2 do lol'_

Kenny raised his brow, scratching at his hair a bit. "He wants to show me some of the city."

Craig scoffed, "What? You two dating now or some shit?"

"Uh, no; he has a boyfriend that he mentioned like, a thousand times," he rolled his eyes. He didn't know the guy's goddamn name, but he knew his damn shoe size and favorite store and a plethora of other useless information Chad had so casually tossed out every few sentences.

He moved to sit cross-legged on the couch and began typing away yet again, giving him a half-shrug. "Sounds like you're jealous that he has one."

Kenny shook his head, "Trust me, I'm not. Guy's nice, but _definitely_ not my type," he drawled. "I ain't one for small talk over hours' worth of conversin'."

Craig gave him a tiny look, fingers still typing away and the hint of a smile quirking on the edge of his lips, subtle enough that anyone not intimately familiar with his mannerisms would never notice. "You're not one for waxing philosophy either. Requires more thought than how to shotgun a beer can."

"You're just _jealous_ since you threw up tryin'," he smirked. Kenny had always determined that he had little to boast about, so he'd ride that goddamn heavier tolerance down into Hell if he had to. Just for _something_ to call a talent. He glanced back at his phone and groaned, thumbnail clinking against the uppermost corner of the screen and gnashing his teeth. "What should I tell 'im?"

"That you're perfectly fine with taking it up the ass if that's what he's after," Craig muttered.

Kenny rolled his eyes, "Yeah. Okay so did you _miss_ when I said he has some guy already? And that I'm not interested? Or are you just a prick?"

"It can be both," he shrugged. "I don't fucking know, McCormick. What do you fucking _want_ to do?"

"I don't _know_ ," he stressed. "That's the fuckin' _problem_."

He sighed in irritation, rubbing his eyes and muttering under his breath. "Do you _want_ to see the city or not? Do you fucking _want_ to go out with this loser?"

"Dude, be nice. You don't even know him."

"I know him well enough to know that he's continuing communication with _you_ , so that just solidifies him within the category."

Ken cocked his brow. "Oh? Along with _you_?"

"I consider my association with you to be charity work. I'm looking for a way to write you off on my taxes," he scoffed, deleting a line from his script one clacking press of the backspace at a time. "I thought you hated the city. If you don't want to go back, then tell him to fuck off."

Kenny hesitated, gnawing on his lip and looking up at the menu pulled up on his television screen. Craig had a point. He did hate the notion of being trapped there again… but if he was _with_ someone, and not someone he found _infinitely_ agitating, he could maybe find _something_ to do. Lord knew Joliet wasn't going to get much more goin' for it, and he was more than stir crazy at this point. So lightheartedly dubbed as 'Prison City', there was little within the town that could make him get out to the few attractions they _did_ carry. And like hell could he afford taking in the annual NASCAR race at the speedway, one of the few goddamn things Craig had pointed out that had him the least bit enthralled when they were deciding where to live. But he'd learned it was good for nothing but traffic and noise lingering off in the distance, watching the race from their couch and pouting as he heard the fireworks going wild. It certainly hadn't helped his opinion of their situation any. But Chicago could have things for him to do instead of his ass fusing into his disc chair like it had been. And Chad didn't exactly seem the type to drag him into a goddamn drug deal or something of the sort…

He sighed, sliding his messages back open. Well, if he was in the city with someone else… he could throw them at the muggers and get away at the _very_ least. Worst case scenario, Chad would just have to die for him to live. Best case, he found somewhere to captivate and entertain his ever fleeting attention at least for a bit and possibly revisit if he memorized the way to get there.

**Kenny M**   
_'Yea sure that sounds fine. When?'_

He dropped his head backwards over his chair, looking at Craig with a pathetic, wobbling lip. "Will you help me put more money in my stupid Ace Ventura card?"

Craig paused and raised his brow. "You mean your _Ventra_ card?"

"Yeah. That," he shrugged.

"I'm not paying for you to go fuck this guy."

He scowled, "No, you moron. I mean just setting up how to refill it; I got my own goddamn funds. And I'm _not_ fucking him."

"Suuurrrreeee," he drawled. "Just set up a goddamn account online and you can fill it. I shouldn't have to walk you through _reading_."

Kenny pouted, "Well I thought maybe you had a coupon or something."

"I have a student discount," he rolled his eyes. "So unless you're willing to rip sixty grand a year out of your ass for a 10% train discount, just deal with the goddamn full price."

Ken opened his mouth to retort, cut off by another ding from his phone.

**Chad G**   
_'I'm off Tues and Wed? If either works 4 u?'_

He let out a long breath, switching to his calendar app and sliding his gaze over his work schedule so very diligently typed in. He nodded in consideration of his options, seeing the blank space on Wednesday and scratching at his hair. "You goin' to class Wednesday?"

"When the fuck do I skip class?"

"When you're high," he reminded him with a smirk. "You gotta be there by like, noon. Right?"

He nodded a bit, sneaking another sip of his coffee. "Yeah, I'll be on the 10:40 bus out of here."

"Guess I'm tagging along," he shrugged, ignoring Craig muttering about how he'd have to deal with his anxious ass all over again.

**Kenny M**   
_'Wed sounds good. Meet at ur work at 12:15ish?'_

He only had to wait a few moments for a response to pop up, Kenny imagining that the guy must be bored out of his goddamn mind to be so honed in on his phone.

**Chad G  
** _'Great! Sounds good, c u then :D'_

Kenny shook his head slightly at the beaming yellow emoji staring at him oh-so-enthusiastically, turning his screen off and going back to his game. He sighed, nestling back down into his seat as he pressed onwards towards Denerim. "He seems happy," he commented more to himself than his companion.

"Did you promise to bend over for him in a pizzeria?"

He rolled his eyes, "Missin' when we fucked at a Pizza Hut, are ya? You know, Craig, if you still have the hots for me you can just say so. This game isn't that difficult, I can do both of ya at once."

Craig let out a sound of disgust, a shudder rolling down his back. "I'd prefer if we _didn't_ discuss my lapse of judgment."

"Well it's not hard to understand. When I get yer blood rushin' out've one head to another, it's hard for ya t' keep focused, ain't it?"

"Drop it, McCormick," he warned.

He smirked, giving an innocent shrug. "Drop what? Your jaw? Your pants? I think I've done that plenty enough times t'-"

"Drop. It," he bit, shaking his head at Kenny bursting into a cackle, tongue sticking out in the slightest as he shot him a mischievous grin.

"Admit it, Tucker. You can't _stand_ livin' with this hot bod and not gettin' it into yer bed every night no more." He lifted his pelvis up a few times, brows wriggling like mad and shooting him a saucy wink.

Craig shut his laptop and tore his charger from the outlet beside him. Without a word, he got to his feet and headed towards his room. He would deal with the shitty lighting. Much better option than the shit-headed roommate's idea of humor.

Kenny grinned wider, "Gonna fix up your room for me? Aw, Craigy-poo!" he cooed. "You don't have t' go through such trouble for lil ol' me-" he stopped as Craig's door slammed shut, head falling back again as he laughed louder, tears of joy beading pale lashes. "Baby if ya need any help in there I'll come give ya a hand!" he shouted, hearing a beyond-irritated growl through the thin walls and beaming self-righteously, turning back to his game and dancing in his seat at his small victory. Five years later and he could still pull that shit off. Craig should've known better than to leave that door wide open, there was no way Kenny could resist traipsing right on in.

He chuckled to himself, pressing his character onwards towards a hoard of darkspawn and sighing, left with a small, crooked smile still on his face. Jokes or not, Craig's all-too-often irritating persona or no, Kenny was _more_ than glad that they'd ended up where they were now. The two of them back when they were nonstop drunk and messing around were _disastrous_. All they did was purposefully get into fights so one of them would eventually cave and they'd end up in a bed fucking the fury right out of the other. It'd taken an intervention to get them to stop, their friends _beyond_ sick of watching them grasping at straws just to build the frustration.

It'd taken two hours and three beers apiece before they finally had realized what they'd been pulling for the last seven months was ridiculous. They'd agreed then and there that it was over. There were no hurt feelings, no one's emotion caught in the sweeping tide. They more than agreed, it was nothing but sex. Plastering on a half-baked title of _'boyfriend'_ for one another was nothing more than a formality, that kind of connection never existing past just wanting some tension release and not particularly wanting to be called the town whores over it. Kenny was comfortable with where they stood, and he knew Craig was, too. Everyone had insisted so goddamn _hard_ that meaningless sex would destroy their friendship. Well they were wrong. Didn't strengthen it either, they just left the dynamic with nothing more than another notch in their bedpost. There was no awkwardness lingering around, no _true_ regret over what'd happened. Kenny couldn't imagine that it could've gone any better than how it had, that they were the rarity in a sea of failed friends-with-benefits that actually managed to snag a buoy.

Didn't mean he couldn't tease the shit out of him for it though.

He settled down yet again, mindlessly bashing his way through enemies and bopping his head a tad to the dramatic music slipping through the room. The past was the past, and he was more than happy to do what he'd done for most of his life and leave it right where it belonged. There was just too much going on in the present and looming in the future, waiting for his nonchalant ass to get itself up and get there. But, for now, he was just going to bide his time. After all, far as his limited vision could tell, the future had nothing in store for him as of yet but a cash register and a casual midweek tour of the city.


	5. Subtlety is (Not) my Middle Name

When Maestro Bernocchi had begun their lessons, he'd first taken Kyle's school group on a tour of Taormina. It was a tourist's city, he'd informed them. A tourist's city where his restaurant made sure to keep rooted in the ways of the old, only technology being substituted to keep up with people's hectic lifestyles. Recipes and processes, however, never changed. The sauces were still steeped and stewed from scratch every morning at five am. Tomatoes were still hand-picked at the market by the maestro himself or one he designated _'worthy'_ enough to take his place while he tended to other business. Everything was taste-tested, everything had attention directed solely towards it.

He'd been a strange man, for sure. In his late fifties, black hair coated with silver like a dusting of flour. He had an immaculately kept goatee and a firm, hardened gaze set deep in eyes the shade of tartufo. He had no patience for any of the bright-eyed students who lost the passion within the week they spent on dish duty, complaining that they had _already_ _learned_ sanitation in the states, that they were just wasting their time and their money. Maestro Bernocchi would weed them out within days, giving them a simple shrug and telling them to go ahead and prove themselves worthy of _his_ kitchen. He'd bar off a translator's assistance, spouting off a dish for the student to make in rapid Italian and leaving them to their own devices. Kyle had loved watching his peers floundering as he stood elbow-deep in oil-sopped dishwater, walking over so damn cockily to their stations before realizing they had no fucking idea what he'd just requested. He fondly remembered one of them being instructed to make _spaghetti al nero di seppia,_ Kyle observing from his drying station as the far-too-boisterous classmate had brought him a plate of spaghetti bolognese. He could _still_ hear that bitter laughter and the sharp angry snippets towards the cowering chef-to-be about how she was nothing but the picture of _tipico impudenza americano_.

One of their translators had held back with Kyle, watching and laughing into her hand. Kyle had been a bit lost in translation limbo, the woman explaining how their maestro had requested spaghetti with squid ink, how the man had little to no patience for brash Americans who thought they knew everything before stepping into his kitchen. Kyle had remembered that tidbit well, always lingering in the background with a translator, watching and listening carefully for exactly what he wanted, _especially_ once they'd finally been put onto the food line.

He'd figured out quickly that he'd been targeted as a potential to wear down and weed out. As the shortest boy in their group and the thinnest of the entire lot, he'd become a superstitious risk, having to battle his worth against the age-old phrase to never trust a skinny cook. Maestro Bernocchi had dubbed him the bambino cuoco, the _baby chef_. Kyle had hated it with a passion, dealing with condescending head pats and cooing foreign words, not needing the translator to be able to tell he was being talked down to. He had been the only one in their group of nine to be dubbed with something other than their last name, Kyle holding onto the belief for a long-ass time that the man just couldn't _pronounce_ his, so he'd had to resort to something else.

Well, at least that was his theory until he'd introduced him to another high-profile chef as he neared his graduation and it flawlessly slipped off his tongue. He'd asked the man about it later that night as they were closing the restaurant, the man laughing and informing him that he always named the ones he knew had the potential to stick around for longer than the three-week trial run. Because, according to his logic, if you can take being talked down to from your superiors, then you can take the same abuse from customers with style. And if he could deal with being called the baby, then he could take criticism to improve his technique.

It was a method Kyle had considered implementing into his own restaurant before realizing that he wasn't going to have students desperate for their degree under his hand, he was going to have employees that would sue him for abuse or something of the sort. Besides, he figured, he wasn't very proficient at insulting people who didn't truly deserve it, at least not when he was far from his influential home state. And he doubted anything he could call his workers would have the same ring as being the bambino cuoco, a name that he had such a love-hate relationship with he _still_ didn't know how he felt about it. It was demeaning, it insulted his worth and his size, it challenged his proficiency in a kitchen. But, there was a level of fondness he'd grown for it, always hearing the way it slipped like cigar smoke off Bernocchi's tongue in that gruff voice of his. Always feeling it looking at him from his bookshelf in his office, from a wooden spoon specially engraved with the moniker and given to him as a graduation present from the man with a rare cheeky grin and a proud rambling that Kyle could only pick out bits and pieces of, but felt the meaning nonetheless.

And on days like this, he kind of missed being considered so low on the rungs, but so protected.

No longer could he afford the luxury of hiding behind the title of student, permitted to make mistakes with only the slightest of lectures. No longer could he stand there as an incognito critic came down on him on how his risotto wasn't _precisely_ how it'd been in the restaurant for the last two decades, only to be saved by his maestro coming from the kitchen and snapping at the grown ass man for screaming down a kid with the barest grasp of their language. He could no longer get encouraging words from someone above him, reminding him that he was doing just _fine_ and to not let his first critic get to him. That culinary skills were an _art_ , not a science.

They weren't bakers, after all.

And, most of all, Kyle missed not having to face down the business side on all fronts. Getting to sit in on a few meetings with Bernocchi, picking up phrases here and there, had been enthralling. He'd sit in the sunbaked office soaking with the salted scent of the Mediterranean, in an old chair leaning against the wall and watch him go at it, talking down realtors and negotiating with vendors. He'd imagined himself in such a position of power, able to command a room, shape the flow of events with just the vibrato in his voice. But, young starry-eyed Kyle had forgotten a crucial element: That his teacher had about thirty years' experience that had gotten him where he was.

He was only four years in, and handling just fine, but he hadn't exactly built himself overnight, still struggling to get vendors to prioritize him. He didn't have people lining around the block for a chance to work for him, more often than not getting interviews of people who'd only worked at McDonald's and wanted to 'expand their culinary resume' as he'd heard time and again. Kyle had had to learn to stop laughing at that one, having to buckle down and remind himself that from the time he was sixteen until he'd left for Chicago to pursue his degree, he was doing dishes for a hole-in-the-wall burger joint. He had absolutely no room to judge those desperate people traipsing through his door hoping for a job, much as sometimes he damn well wanted to believe he'd earned the right.

Kyle leaned his head back, staring up at his office ceiling and clicking his tongue, the soft sounds of hold music sailing through his phone. He felt like this was where he spent damn near a fourth of his day, put on hold and knowing that the world outside was bustling about. He stifled a yawn, eyes lazily focusing on the years-old water damage stain cresting the corner of one of the plaster tiles. Once again, he wondered if he should just get some damn paint and fix it up, make it match the rest of his office décor that he'd haphazardly made look somewhat presentable. He hadn't given two shits about its appearance, only sticking in a silk olive tree to cover a large dent and a rug to hide the torn carpet after a waitress made the suggestion. Made it look more presentable for vendors, more classed-up, she'd told him, and he couldn't argue with that logic, willing to do just about anything to get himself in with some decent produce.

He just had to hope none of them looked up, he supposed.

A knock rapped against his door and he glanced towards it with a blink, "Yeah?" A curly blonde head poked into the doorway, Kyle hit with the potent stench of spices and flames, the sound of simmering soups and sizzling meats. He smirked a bit at his visitor, "What's up, Bebe?"

She smiled back, obviously worn down from her last five hours on her feet. Manicured, unpolished nails rapped against the door frame, tired hazel eyes looking him up and down for signs of a deal breaker in her mission goaded on by her coworkers. "You have a minute?"

"Probably more, I've been on hold for like, ten," he rolled his eyes, waving her inside and putting his phone on speaker, letting the quiet melody play itself out as she made way to the seat across from him.

She sat down with a sigh, cracking her neck a bit and giving him a crooked smirk, "Look at you. In here bein' lazy on the phone while _some of us_ are actually working."

Kyle snorted, "You know me. Takin' naps and jerkin' off in here. All I ever do."

"Hm, I know," she teased, leaning back a bit and crossing her arms. "So… bit of a question that's goin' around," she started cautiously.

"Okay?"

She cleared her throat, "Kyle, we're goddamn running ourselves ragged out there. Are we ever gonna get some new people in?"

He nodded, grabbing a stack of manila folders beside his computer and shaking them. "Yep. I have three interviews I'm doin' today, got two more tomorrow. Possibly more lined up if I don't find someone who fits."

Bebe let out a long sigh of relief and gave him another smile, "See, now I kept _telling_ everyone you weren't evil and trying to kill us, but they didn't believe me."

Kyle scoffed, "Please. That'd just make more work for _me_." She chuckled and his face dropped a bit with sympathy as she stifled a yawn. "Look, I know it's been rough the last few weeks. I'll get this worked out as soon as I can. I'm… _trying_ to be less picky," he winced. He felt awful watching his wait staff struggling to stay on top of things, the beginnings of fall meaning that he lost six of his employees to the beginning of the school year. Three from his wait staff, two bussers, and one of his goddamn bartenders. He'd been furious as he'd gotten their notices, Bebe right beside him as he read through and cursed aloud. After all, he'd hired them with that _specific_ question being a selling point in their interviews, if down-the-road commitments would result in them losing hours or having to quit. He'd never be angry at one for trying to further their education, but he had every right to be downright _pissed_ over being _lied to_.

She snorted, a freshly plucked brow hiking high. "Sweetie. Please. You don't know _how_ to function without being picky."

He pouted, glancing down at the phone still playing its looping music and sighing. She wasn't exactly _wrong_. She'd been with him since he'd opened his doors, seeing him scavenging through employees and recipes with a fine-toothed comb time and again. She teased him for it consistently, always insisting that one day she was going to walk into the kitchen to see him with a magnifying glass picking the individual natural fibers off of his vegetables until they met his standards.

Bebe had been his first hire, the only person who came in for an interview prepared with references and a genuinely pleasant personality, the first that had put him at ease as he struggled to get a grasp on the hiring process. He'd learned not too far down the line that she was just a master of putting on a sweet face, that she had a Chicago-bred attitude behind closed doors that could shake nearly anyone down to their core if they tapped into it. He more than appreciated both sides of her coin, more often than not having her tag along with him to potential local grocers to frequent and having her read the fine nuances of the owners' mannerisms. Kyle didn't quite comprehend the masked snark of Midwestern life, far more used to the brash, boorish yelling he'd been raised around. But Bebe had a keen, practiced eye, could catch the barely-visible twitch of a brow, could clearly hear the underlying annoyance in a tone hiding under the heavy guise of friendly banter that Kyle could never seem to grasp. She'd gotten him out of potentially disastrous deals, had more than once forced him out of a situation where his educated rambling was grating on fine nerves, seeing the faint clenching of fists atop a scuffed countertop and escorting a very confused Kyle out of the building.

He ran his fingers through his hair with another sigh, "I'll do what I can. Is everyone all right with how they're being scheduled?" he winced. "Since no one will goddamn be honest with me." He could always count on her to be his ears on the outside, to tell him if there was a slip-up he'd made that he didn't catch but the rest of his workers did. He'd learned it well throughout his management training: You keep the people you're working for happy, and you find any way you can to stop a problem before it escalates. And, as far as Kyle was concerned, Bebe was the best preventative he could've asked for, never beating around the bush when it came to his policies. Well over a decade of waitressing gave her enough firsthand experience to know just when people were being fucked over, always more than willing to make damn sure Kyle stayed out of that possible path as he requested.

She shrugged, picking a piece of stray parsley from her apron and tossing it into the wastebasket beside his desk. "As well as we can be. And they're just worried you'll get mad and take it out on 'em, Sweetie."

He leaned his head back and shook it, "Yeah. Because that's me in a nutshell, isn't it?"

She chuckled, "Hon, most of us have been in the service industry longer than you've had your degrees," she jerked her head to his wall. "We've _all_ been screwed over by managers when requesting a day off or whatnot. You learn to tiptoe around them and just bitch to the non-gossipy coworkers. It's a delicate system."

Kyle dropped his head back down to rest his chin in his palm, "Are they really that worried I'd do that to 'em?"

Bebe gave him another shrug, "It's nothing personal. You worked in a kitchen before you went to school, didn't you deal with that?"

"Not really. I just did dishes, and it was only me and one other guy," he shrugged back. "And when I was in school I was a full-time line cook before and after I was abroad. I had a fairly set schedule."

"Lucky lucky," she teased. She waved off the thoughtful look on his face with a chuckle. "Don't take it personally," she advised. "No one here hates you, at least not that I've heard. Just don't be a jerk and try to schedule someone for more than three days straight and you're golden."

He smirked a bit and nodded, "Well hopefully the new people will make that easier to accomplish." He looked down at the phone and rolled his eyes, "I _just_ wanted some fucking napkins, why are they goddamn taking so long?!"

"Lunch break?" she guessed.

He sighed, " _I'm_ about to break somethin' if I can't get a goddamn ans-" they turned at another knock on his door, watching as Jason poked his head through and smiled a bit. "What's up?" Kyle blinked.

"Someone here who says they have an interview. For wait staff," he raised his brows, both of them reading the hope glimmering deep in dark eyes.

Kyle glanced at his clock, cursing under his breath. "Fuckin' napkins threw my time off…" he glanced at the phone still playing through and groaned, lifting and slamming the receiver back down to cut off the line. "Guess that'll have to wait," he grumbled. "Send 'em in," he directed.

Bebe chuckled and got to her feet, patting his head dotingly. "Deep breaths, Sweetie. You can always call them back."

"You say that but you've never dealt with this end of the bullshit," he drawled. "Ordering two-hundred pieces of cloth shouldn't be a goddamn day-long endeavor but here we are."

She laughed, giving him wink, "Well, don't let that bullshit make you _pickier_." He shot her a playful sneer as she and Jason made way out of the office, hearing the quiet mumbling from behind his door as he stood up and straightened out his jacket. He began rolling up his sleeves as he watched the barrier with a tired sigh, stealing a glance to the top folder for a name. He hated doing interviews, hated it with a passion. Feeling like he was interrogating someone was never an enjoyable activity, knowing well enough that so many people he'd talked to were excited and oh-so-confident they were going to walk out with a job. He'd turned down so many applicants he almost felt guilty, despite knowing well enough you can't very well hire _everyone_ who walks through your door, especially once you hit a high level of expected care for consumers. No one who came here was going to be okay with Denny's-level service.

Four years of culinary management had taught him that his wait staff is as important a decision to make as his chefs. They were the faces of his business, anything _they_ did reflected on him and his leadership skills. It was a tough truth for Kyle to learn and accept, having to finally buckle down with the idea that they were not individuals to the outside crowd on his dining floor. They were a conglomerated blob, a mass that lived and breathed only for their satisfaction. Only when something went particularly right or particularly wrong did they all of a sudden become their own entities. Whether one of his chefs were pulled from the kitchen for a compliment, or he was rushing out onto the floor because someone didn't particularly like the blend of spices on their chicken and needed to let the man behind it all know of their displeasure.

But, as he'd been taught, regardless of what the consumers think, _he_ needed to be the one to know what the right calls to make were. He needed to be able to find people he could trust with holding his entire livelihood in their hands, to know if a customer complaint truly held any water or if they were just trying to score a comped meal. Knowing his employees was important, he'd been told. If he could keep their names straight, talk to them one-on-one without berating or demeaning them, no matter their position, and remember that he was more valuable to his company only by title, he'd have a much happier crew under his thumb. And that all started with step one: Seeing how well they could interact under pressure.

He plastered on a grin as a tall blonde man walked through the door with a smile bright as the Midwestern sun. Kyle walked towards him, holding his palm out and shaking his hand. "Hi. You're Gary?"

"Sure am!" he nodded, with enough enthusiasm Kyle vaguely wondered if his head was just going to bobble itself right off his neck. "Mr. Broflovski I presume?"

Kyle took his hand back and waved him off. "Kyle. Hate being Mr.'d," he gestured to the seat across from his own at his desk, both of them making way and sitting to stare at one another from across the scattered surface. "How're you?" he asked. Pleasantries. Very important, he'd learned. Needed to talk to them as humans before beginning to rip apart their personalities one question at a time.

"Doin' great. How about yourself?" he grinned a little wider.

Kyle blinked, keeping his own polite smile on. _'How does his face not hurt?'_ he wondered. "Tired," he answered honestly. "Gonna be real Mr…" he peeked at his folder, "Harrison, it's been a long day and we've only been open for three hours."

"Well you're bound to have some days like that," he shrugged.

" _Most_ of our days are like that," he winced. "I'm gonna cut to the chase here: This is a fast-paced environment, just like any other restaurant," he snagged Gary's folder and flipped it open to his resume, grabbing a pen from beside him and trailing down through his information. "You waited for… what are these, charity auctions?"

He nodded, "Sure are. My church held them once a month for years, I always volunteered."

"But, never worked an actual restaurant?" he flickered his eyes at him, making a small notation on his application.

"Not an 'actual' one, no," he admitted. "But it was pretty quick paced there. Worked with the elderly a bunch and they're not the most patient of customers," he smiled sheepishly.

Kyle nodded, "Well, we have a lot of older folks comin' in here, too," he said. He leaned back in his chair, observing his simultaneously rigid and unnaturally relaxed posture, and that never-ending smile that hadn't moved an inch. "So, have you ever eaten here before?"

He shook his head, "No offense, Sir, but my family can't afford it. There's seven of us so that'd be a bit out of our price range."

He chuckled, "Trust me, that's a common answer. Well, there's a reason we're so high priced. We serve authentic food, you're not gonna find a jar of Prego in here. We've built our reputation as a date destination, a place to literally show off how much you can afford to spend. Didn't start that way when I opened it, but that's just kind of how we went."

"I'd say that's a great accomplishment then if it went that way on its own," Gary complimented.

He smirked, "Well, it certainly wasn't on its own. It went that way because my chefs are skilled and my wait staff is efficient. And we're high-profiled enough that I won't accept anything less than that, no matter what rung of worker you're on." He watched him nodding along and clicked his tongue softly. "So, efficient waiting. What does that mean to you?" he readied his pen, eyes locked in bright pools of hazel.

"I'd say treating customers with respect and keeping them happy," he grinned.

Kyle nodded, making another swift note. "Exactly. Those people on the floor aren't your walking tip jars, they're people. And they're people that, for the time being, are your only concern and should get nothing from you but a decent attitude. Now that doesn't mean they can treat you like dirt and I won't kick them out for fear of losing profits, but it's important to have a good fake-ass smile for them, even if you're coming into the kitchen cursing to yourself because life is hard at the moment."

He chuckled, "Well, I tend to keep a good attitude about most anything, Sir."

"Which is good. You need that in this industry," he tapped his pen on his folder. "So, what made you apply for here?"

He lightly pushed back a lock of hair and shrugged. "I walk by it most every morning on the way to take my sisters to the bus station. Gonna sound kind of silly, but I always liked the name."

Kyle smirked a bit to himself, "Leads me to my next question: Can you _pronounce_ the name?"

Gary paused, the smile faltering for the slimmest of moments before snapping back into place. "Lucy da _…_ gardino?"

Kyle snorted, "Believe it or not, that's almost always the answer I get. But no. It's _Luci da giardino._ Last part I tell everyone to remember a jar of sauce or something ridiculous to help 'em out with that damn _g_. No one's gotten it right the first time so far."

Gary laughed softly, "Well, that makes me feel better. What's it mean?"

"Garden lights," Kyle answered, looking at the curious expression on his face and shrugging, a light blush dusting over his cheeks. "I have my reasons," he assured him. "Bit of a weird and long story, and we're here for you." Gary chuckled and nodded him along as he looked back at Gary's information. He took a deep breath through his nose, pen continuing to rap across the top of his folder. ' _Less picky,'_ he reminded himself. This guy seemed nice. _Too_ nice, in fact. _'How has this city not eaten him alive,'_ he wondered. "So," he restarted, nestling back in his chair and preparing himself for notes once more. "Tell me what you think you can bring to the table." He paused, "No pun intended."

Gary laughed again, an airy, bouncing sound that put even Kyle into a bit of ease from his naturally suspicious state. In a way he reminded him of Butters' interview, except Gary wasn't stumbling over his words and pressing his knuckles together in some kind of odd tic. No, he seemed to just have that natural decency that was a rarity anywhere, let alone in the heart of the third largest city in the country. Kyle was no fool, had learned well from his employees and customers alike that anyone can put on a cheerful face until the right buttons were pushed. Anyone could shift from kitten to starved tiger in the blink of an eye.

Especially in his case, where he couldn't ever seem to read people and know if he was going too far with his direct nature.

Here, the socially dictated kindness and charms he'd found upon his arrival into the city had thrown him for a loop, had him hiding in his dorm when not in class or work because he just couldn't understand. He had thought he was hated, that everyone was humoring him, lowering his defenses to eventually strike him down. It'd taken his roommate months to talk him out of his worries, accompanying him out on the town every chance they had to do so. He'd had to teach him that people on the same level just grinned and bore it, that only once someone was in a position of a mutually established _power_ over the other did their nasty sides come out into the light. Born and raised in Springfield, Stan was more than knowledgeable about Illinois mannerisms, guided Kyle through being so far from home and feeling so isolated.

Eight years later, he was still doing so, teasing Kyle relentlessly all the while with his girlfriend and Bebe joining in on the chorus of taunts. But, Kyle didn't mind. After all, his unforeseeably-acquired gentle-natured best friend had gotten him away from some particularly nasty fights in their underclassman years when Kyle's smart mouth went further than expected. Nursing busted noses and spilling lectures about doing things the way of the Heartland and learning to walk away, Stan had done the impossible and taught a scrappy boy from Jersey how to settle passably into their subtle ways. He still didn't get it, he still didn't particularly _trust_ their smiles and nuances, but he could blend, had learned to keep his mouth shut more often than not.

He'd learned that everyone here had a story, but most of them were just damn good at hiding it.

He nodded along as Gary continued his modest boasting, making a note reading only _'sure'_ across the top of his application page. It'd make his staff happy, even if this peppy attitude was a constant that would grate on their nerves eventually. Whatever took some of the burden off their shoulders, he supposed. Maybe he'd get lucky, find the rest of who could fill in the majority of his roster blanks within the next four interviews and finish his temporary disaster at last. He sighed to himself, mindlessly asking follow-up questions and responding appropriately, fighting off a budding yawn.

Three hours down, at least seven more to go.

He was tired, he still had to get a hold of the damn company holding his napkin order hostage. He needed to make sure his vegetables were stocked and that his steak was thawing properly for tomorrow night's special. He forced himself to make at least four runs a night onto the floor to greet customers, make sure everything was kept up to his standards. Still had two more of these damn talks to go through and knew his dish duties would be astronomical for closing while they were short both busser positions as it had been for weeks.

But, he thought with a sleepy smile as Gary continued to prattle on with enthusiastic responses, it was all worth it. He could keep such frustrations bottled up to himself, had learned to push them deep down as he realized anyone in his life he spilled his troubles to would merely pat his hand and assure him that he would figure something out. This wasn't the land of screaming answers; it was the land of independent inner realization. A barrier was built between himself and all of them, one he wasn't sure if it was constructed by all involved or just naturally there from their glaringly different methodologies. He just had to push through it all, had to remind himself that he made it in foreign countries without anyone but the translator holding his hand, the goddamn Midwest wasn't so difficult. It was merely a matter of learning to push, push, _push_ it all down, let it simmer until the pilot light eventually flickered out. To keep it all to himself except with his closest friends who would at least make the effort to step through that barrier.

Or at least… he made the attempt. Old habits certainly die hard, though.

He stole another glance at his clock, letting the conversation flow on its own as he began constructing his schedule, timing each move he needed to make to the best of his ability. With any luck, if all moved smoothly, he'd only be kept an hour and a half or so after closing to shut everything down. Then he could go home, get his dinner, and collapse in bed.

He gave Gary another polite nod as the words floated aimlessly between them, nestling into the hidden torn carpet and seeping up into his water-stained ceiling. Even if this guy was pulling the wool over his eyes, even if he turned out to be a disaster waiting to happen, Kyle held the cards. It was one of the few powers he held being trapped in this mundane world. This restaurant, _his world_ was the one place where tact amongst one another could be thrown out the door, at least when it came to his employees. According to Bebe, newcomers were warned that he had an infamously short temper. More often than not he'd walk into his office to yell it out or sneak out back with a cigarette to stop himself from blowing up at a mistake under his watch, but it was still a sight that his long-time employees had been subjected to once or twice. And they _never_ forgot it. But, as he'd learned working in restaurant after restaurant, the kitchen was where tempers could be lost, regardless of locale. So long as a smile was plastered back on as soon as they hit the dining floor, the hidden heart of the building was full of cursing at one another, at snapping each other down for stupid mistakes.

It more than explained why he felt so at home slaving over a stovetop.

Worked to his advantage, he supposed. He didn't get the ways of these lifetime residents, but they were vastly unprepared for _his_ when the fire refused to be doused and everything he was finally bubbled over and splattered onto anyone close enough to see the mess unfurl. They cussed each other out and bitched until the sauce stewed, sure. But they never had the _bite_ that Kyle could pull from seemingly thin air, the fear he could instill at the drop of a hat. Gave him an advantage that he knew how to wield and none of them knew how to combat aside from nervous stammering and trying to get out of his line of sight. Gave him the authority, made even his grill cook who stood over a foot taller than himself and was proportioned three times as wide slink down into a nervous puddle.

But, that wasn't why he was here, wasn't _how_ he'd gotten his business to run smooth as it did. No, no. That all boiled down to camouflage, something he was becoming more than adept at as he learned to forget who he once was and sink into the path he'd been forced down. He sighed again, brushing curls back and keeping up that fake smile to combat the glowing brilliance of Gary's own. He was losing, but that was perfectly fine.

After all, if he could keep up this façade, then Maestro Bernocchi's off-beat teaching methods were still as effective as ever. The everlasting _bambino_ or not, he could _still_ take on any challenge that came his way with style; subtle or otherwise.


	6. No Promises

Rocking from his heels to the balls of his feet, Kenny's eyes listlessly scanned over the limited skyline in his view. He couldn't seem to figure out what to do with his hands, shifting from crossing his arms and shoving his fingers down into his jeans pockets, clutching around his lighter sinking to the bottom of the fabric chasm. He traced along the dips and rises of the buildings in the background across the street over the view of cars wanting so desperately to floor it in the mere fifty feet they had before the next stoplight.

They were sharp, cutting lines slicing through the daylight hours, angry steel structures that stood in defiance of what was once nothing but grasslands and fields and a lakeside view. They were nothing like the mountains back home, where they gently sloped up into the sky, meeting the clouds with a gentle greeting as they overtook the land. Mountains were powerful, but skyscrapers were daunting. Kenny's mind drifted off to Clyde still back home, wondering how his architectural endeavors were faring. Not much to build in South Park, only the occasional house or a surprise strip plaza needing any kind of blueprint. But he'd seemed comfortable with that when Kenny had seen him last, more than willing to make the money off what he considered 'the lowest exertion of imagination'. Kenny supposed for Clyde, that'd always been the pattern: Finding the easiest route and exploiting the living hell out of it. He'd slid through all their years of school on his looks and popularity alone, never wanting to step outside of that comfortable coddling.

In a way, Kenny envied that. He himself had a prior tendency to do simple, if not reckless things for a quick buck, but not making a _living_ off it. After all, that was how his _father_ tended to garner most of their family's money. Making bets on how many shots he could down before vomiting and passing out into his own filth was the primary source of McCormick income for years until Kenny's older brother finally reached working age. He and Kenny had done odd jobs in secret long beforehand, taking money for themselves and Karen and trying to keep one another fed and clothed while they watched their parents squirreling government paychecks off onto food to trade others for pills and booze. When he was twelve, he'd watched his mother hand off a perfectly good bagful of groceries for a half-full bottle of expired Valium, something that stuck with him for _years_. He didn't want to be like that, didn't want to exploit programs for the needy or make his way in life through under-the-table occupations.

He'd worked a clothing store throughout his high school years right up until he'd had to drop out of college, jumping right into another customer service hell just to be damn sure he didn't turn into the two people he so _loathed_. Craig and Clyde teased him for being a 'measly' cashier. Tweek had no scope of how difficult it was to break into and remain in the workforce being born secured in the family business. And Token could never quite grasp the concept of one not being able to get the money from their parents. But it mattered not, he at least had some semblance of pride to hang onto, even if it was something as meager as just having actual taxes taken out of his paycheck and being considered a working man that contributed to society in his own way. It was the little things, he'd come to learn. Clyde could keep his fancy little degree in his overheated office all he wanted. He was lazing on through by means of the spattering of employees he'd been able to grab after securing the managerial position at his firm.

Whatever made him happy and kept him from being nothing but a cocky douche like when they were kids, Kenny figured. Or at least, a cocky douche out of his earshot.

Ken glanced to his side as the Harbucks door swung open, hit with the potent aroma of French roast and letting out a long breath. He loved the smell of coffee. Rarely drank it, but _adored_ the scent. He remembered it clearly following Tweek around wherever he went with their group. It started clinging onto himself while working late night shifts with Tweek at his family's shop, scrubbing out the espresso machine and helping restock syrups for a few extra bucks on the side. It was a nice little thing to find comfort in, so common a scent he could make it right in his apartment and, for just a few moments, be taken back home.

"Hey, Ken!" a voice _far_ too chipper for the early afternoon hours burst over the never-ending symphony of the city.

He shot his head in the direction of the noise, seeing Chad making his way towards him and forcing himself to curl his lips upwards in the slightest. He had to at least _try_ to be polite. His older brother didn't raise no ungrateful piece of shit. "Hey," he greeted, nodding with a brisk bob before standing up off his leaning post, opting to keep his hands burrowed deep in his pockets, putting that extra safeguard over his wallet and phone.

Chad made it beside him and smiled up sheepishly, "Sorry I'm late."

Kenny raised his brow, snatching out his phone and looking at the clock. "Dude it's 12:20. You're not late."

He snorted, "You say that, but trust me, to some people in my life, that's _definitely_ considered late."

"Ew," he scrunched his nose. "Sounds like some people in your life need to get the stick outta their ass."

He waved off the notion, shaking his head. "No, no. They kind of have to live with their career measured down to the last second, so it makes sense."

"Bomb diffuser?" he guessed.

"You could call it that," he laughed. "Ready to go?"

He nodded, cracking his neck and stepping up beside the shorter man. "Where're we goin'?"

"Well you said you have pretty much all day to kill before your roommate is done with his classes so I'd assume you wanna wait until he's done?"

Kenny shrugged, "It's preferred. I'd rather not sit outside of snob central for hours if I can avoid it. But, you know, if I hafta, I hafta."

Chad gave him a curt nod. "Well, we both have the day to waste, so I say we start down this way," he waved his hand subtly and stepped off down the sidewalk, Kenny lingering just a few inches back from him as he kept pace. Chad shot him an easygoing smile, "Anything in particular you'd like to do?"

"Not really," he scratched through his hair. "If I was home I'd just be lounging around doin' jack shit, I'm not exactly full of hobbies."

He elbowed him in the slightest. "You have to have _some_ kind of hobby."

"Does jerkin' off and then making my roomie wanna pull his hair out count?" he smirked.

Chad raised an amused brow, "I can't tell if you're actually friends with this guy or not."

Ken snorted, "Yeah. We've been best buds since we were kids. He's just a dick. Probably why I get along with him so well; I can relate."

He waved off the notion, "You don't seem _that_ dickish."

"Hmm you don't know me very well, Dude," he shrugged with a teasing grin. "I'm a pretty terrible person when it comes right down to it. If someone attacks us, I'm throwin' you at 'em and dartin' away."

Chad laughed, shaking his head. "You know what, if that happens, you have my full permission."

"Well that takes all the fun out of it." He turned back forward, pivoting slightly to avoid crashing into a passerby locked in concentration on their phone. He scoffed, turning and glaring back towards the man who wasn't the least bit deterred from scrolling through his Facebook feed. "People here are so fuckin' rude."

Chad shrugged, "Not really. Just a lot of us are nonconfrontational. We'd rather plow right through and not make eye contact than ask you to move. Whoever isn't distracted is just expected to get out of the way. It's just how it's done, weird as it may seem."

"Tell me about it," he muttered. "You pull that shit back where I'm from and we'll at the _very_ least flip ya off to getcha t' move. And we yell at ya for not payin' attention."

He paused, looking at him with the slightest hint of suspicion. "Where are you from, exactly?"

Ken's face fell into a fond, forlorn expression, "Colorado. Quiet lil mountain town. Until someone pissed you off, then you'd hear yourself echoin' all over downtown."

Chad's twisted face relaxed, and he let out a quiet laugh. "So, you're _really_ not from around here."

"Nope," he popped his lips. "You Illinois fuckers are a strange species. I'm just here to take notes and report back to the human race."

He snorted, "They're a little strange to me, too, Man. I'm a Hoosier. I moved out here after college and just haven't gone back home yet."

"What the _fuck_ is a fuckin' Hoosier?" he stared down at him.

Chad smirked, "I'm from Indiana," he elaborated. "Outside of Kokomo. It's less than half the size of Joliet, it's an itty-bitty city where no one raises their heads. You bump into people a lot more than you do up here."

"Okay, but that didn't answer my question," Kenny cocked his brow. "What's a Hoosier?"

He clicked his teeth, looking up thoughtfully, trying to figure out the best way to explain it to a non-native. "Someone who's from Indy. No one knows why we're called that, everyone has a theory. Either way, it's just what we are. We just kind of accept it."

Kenny considered this before breaking into a ribbing smirk. "Well, it could work to your advantage. Hittin' on someone, all ya gotta say for your opener is ' _Hoosier daddy?'_ and you're set."

"Ha. Ha. That one neeeever gets old," he rolled his eyes. Ken burst into laughter at him shaking his head, practically seeing the years' worth of repetition cycling through his mind.

"Man, and I thought I was bein' so original," he chuckled.

"You and the millions of others who pull out that line. Pretty sure IU had that on their shirts one year," he scoffed, coming to a stop at the edge of the sidewalk. The two of them stared at the crossing light across the way, letting the echoes of the city pulsate around them.

Kenny covered his mouth as he let out a long yawn, eyes tearing up in the slightest and smacking his lips. "So, where're we headin'?"

Chad shrugged, "Well, you haven't really been around, figured tourist traps were a good place to start. Shedd gets you out of the 'I Heart Chi-Town' jurisdiction at the very least. So, that's a bonus."

Ken nodded slowly, "Well, that's good. I'm definitely not goin' home with a souvenir magnet. Craig would call me an unoriginal fuckwad who wouldn't know art if it fucked me up the ass."

"…I'm guessing that's a common phrase for him."

"You have no idea." Chad snorted with laughter, leading him across the street as the light turned, Kenny keeping up at his side with not-so-subtle side eyes directed towards brisker passersby. "So we're walkin' there?"

He shook his head, "You have a Ventra, right?" Kenny nodded and he smiled, looking more relieved than Ken was sure that he meant to. "Good. No, we're hittin' LaSalle up to Union, then we'll hit the 146 and it'll backtrack and take us straight there."

Kenny blinked, head spinning with locations and numbers, Chad speaking an entirely new language without a goddamn dictionary in sight. "How the _fuck_ do you memorize all this shit?"

He shrugged, "It's really not that bad once you get used to it. And you learn the ones that hit Shedd or the Pier or Willis pretty quickly because a _lot_ of tourists come up and ask you about 'em."

He hummed softly, stepping up onto the curb with him and cracking his neck with a long sigh. "I couldn't do it, Man. Someone asked me for directions to the nearest McDonald's at work the other day and I just blanked. It's about a block from the station and I get lunch there like, once a week."

Chad chuckled, "Well, it's different here. I was like that in Aurora. But if you work in the city, you're pretty much told that a part of your job is to at least have the Google skills to help visitors find their way. Don't worry too much about it, Man. Everyone is confused the first few times they come around. Sometimes you learn slowly, but you still learn. That's why you should come with someone who knows what they're doing, and even I only have the _barest_ idea of where to go. I learned everything from my boyfriend," he snorted. "Even he still has to look routes up."

"How long has he been in this hellhole?" Kenny raised his brow.

"Eight years. He came here for college and just never left."

Ken smirked, "So almost a decade and he can't figure this place out either?"

"Hey, he's got you and me beat," Chad shrugged. "And to him, this place is pretty tame."

"I find that _severely_ hard to believe," he drawled.

A small, wistful smile curled up on his lips, "Well, you hear some of his stories from where he's from or see how he gets and you _definitely_ get a newfound fondness for people ducking their heads down around you." Kenny raised his brow, looking back into the thrall of people surrounding them at said heads tilted towards phones and books. Sure, they were keeping to themselves, but there were still so _many_ of them. It was overwhelming no matter how calm their faces made it seem. Individually, they were harmless, but in this mob, they were a force to be reckoned with, whether they saw it or not. He couldn't imagine anywhere outside of maybe New York or LA competing with such vehemence. He shuddered at the notion.

Kenny forced his attention back to his companion, not willing to stew in the mindset of what possibilities lurked about. "So how much does the fish park cost?"

He smirked, "Well, they have a pass to see all the on-site stuff for around forty…" he paused, seeing Kenny cringing to himself in the slightest. "And they _also_ have a limited on-site pass for in-state people for about eight."

"That one," he nodded confidently. "Definitely that one. I'm pinchin' my pennies enough as it is, Man." He bit down, feeling a small string of anxiety from the whirlwind of walking through crowds starting to settle in his chest. "Mind if I smoke?"

He winced a bit but shrugged, "Just stand on the other side downwind of me and it's fine."

"Nevermind," he waved it off. I'll smoke in the parking lot or something a good few yards from ya when we get there."

"No, seriously, it's fine if you want to, I just-"

"Dude," he cut him off with a scoff as they came to another crossing light. "I ain't dyin'. I can wait. It ain't a problem."

Chad gave him a small smile and a thankful nod. "So, money tight then?"

He shrugged, "I make barely minimum wage and my roommate doesn't have a job. His parents send a little bit every month but most everything comes from me. Making the trip out here had me rearranging our 'budget'," he air-quoted.

"Why'd you say it like that?" he raised his brow.

"Our budget is 'how many packs of cigs can we buy in these two weeks before we go broke and I must become a prostitute'."

"…Quit smoking?" he suggested.

Kenny snorted, "Listen. It keeps me from murdering everyone in a homicidal rage. I _think_ that's worth seven bucks a pack, ya know?" Chad gave a small, sheepish shrug and Ken grinned. "Had to give up one'a mine to get my card filled up."

Chad nodded slowly, the both of them stepping off with the group surrounding them to the next sidewalk across the way. "Have you looked for a higher paying job?"

"Not many to be had in Joliet without a degree," he said with a quiet sigh. "I'm gonna be stuck in cashiering hell makin' goddamn $8.45 the rest of my life."

Chad winced, "God, is it really that low of a wage outside of here? I completely forgot it was that bad."

"Nah, it's $8.25 at the minimum. In the last three years working there I got fuckin' twenty cents of a raise total," he scoffed, rolling his eyes dramatically. "The boss won't let me be full-time, works me literally a half-hour under it _every_ week," he groaned.

Chad awkwardly patted his arm as they stepped onto the sidewalk. He paused, biting his lip thoughtfully and looking up towards the lightly clouded sky. "Well… you ever think of gettin' a job out here?"

Ken barked out a laugh, "Dude, I didn't even know you guys made more money 'til ya told me last week. And pretty hard for me to work somewhere I don't know my way around."

"What if there was somewhere real close to LaSalle, like right down the road? Not hard to find from your usual route at all?"

Kenny looked down at him and cocked his head, "Harbucks hirin'?"

He shook his head, "No, and where I'm thinking of, you'd get even more money than you would working with me."

"Then… why don't _you_ work there?" he questioned.

He smirked, "I have my reasons. But I know they're pretty desperate for help…" he pulled out his phone to check the time, clicking his tongue. "We can walk around Shedd for a while, grab a bite, and go over there after it opens. At least for you to see it," he shrugged.

Kenny blinked, nodding his head slowly and weighing the possibilities. "What is it?"

"A restaurant," he elaborated. "They-"

"I don't have waiting experience," he cut him off. "Like, zilch."

"They need bussers, too," he continued. " _Badly_. I'm sure they'd be happy to help you out. And you'd make a lot more money, and just have to take the one train you know instead of a thousand bus transfers once you hit the city."

Kenny winced, shifting a bit and wishing he hadn't already told him he'd wait to light up his Marlboro. "I… I'm not so sure I'd be a good fit here, Man."

"Listen, I'm just trying to help, and it gets you out of Joliet and away from a cash register. Why not just look and talk?"

"I'm not even _dressed_ for an interview of any kind," he reminded him, gesturing to his tattered jeans and oversized hoodie.

Chad chuckled, "Coming in with me, I think that won't matter quite as much. Wanna at least give it a shot? If you don't want to, that's fine, I'm just throwing it out as a decent opportunity maybe."

Ken twisted his lips, letting out a long breath and looking back forward. He wasn't wrong, extra money would be _great_. Getting out of a gas station would be even better. And there was no guarantee either way that he'd come close to getting a job, but maybe hearing a prospective wage could boost him forward and maybe make him look a tiny bit more closely at jobs around the Loop at least. Less chance of getting mugged if he didn't have to go to bus after bus… He gnawed a bit on his tongue before looking back at Chad's waiting face and giving him a soft nod. "All right. To look. No promises, though."

He grinned, obviously pleased with his answer. "No promises," he agreed. "I think you'll like it though, no one gets screwed over while working there."

Kenny gave him a small smile back, shivering at the autumn air picking up a light speed and seeping through his hoodie. Well. That _would_ certainly be a nice change of pace. He sighed, glancing up and seeing the approaching Metra station a few streets down. He couldn't help but smirk to himself in the slightest, forcing himself to look on the brighter side of the situation. At the very least if this turned into a decent prospect, for the first time in years, he wouldn't be coming home smelling like hot dogs and diesel.


	7. A Running Gambit

Kenny had been wrong. He was _vastly_ under-dressed for the building they were standing in front of.

Peering inside through a large window, he could see couples and groups dressed to the nines. Their attire spoke of evening galas and nightly soirees, not a late Chicagoan lunch at 4:00 in the afternoon. His heart thudded nervously, eyes sweeping across the elegant lettering on a finished wooden sign, eyes squinting at the peeling cranberry paint.

Chad followed his sight and chuckled. "Luci da giardino," he answered the unspoken query. "Means 'garden lights' or something like that. Don't get overwhelmed, Man."

"I'm not, I'm not," he lied, feeling every ounce of his redneck heritage out and on full display standing oh-so-casually dressed in front of a place he probably couldn't even afford to _look at_. Chad hadn't told him _this_. He'd told him it was Italian, leaving the conversation off there and figuring he would learn more once he got to see it for himself. Well, Kenny _definitely_ figured out quite a bit from his first impression. Like the fact that this owner wouldn't look at him _twice_ before telling him to get lost, regardless of whatever pull Chad claimed to have over them.

Chad made way for the door, looking back at him and smirking. "Are you coming?"

He gulped, rolling back his shoulders and forcing himself to strike a confident pose. It was the only attribute he had, having snared several of his previous employments just based on exuding the air of a man who knew what he was doing. Too bad such was not the case here. Chad was leading him straight into the lion's den and he was but a helpless, dazed gazelle who'd wandered too far from his own kind. A long exhale passed through his lips as he stepped off, eye twitching at the slight tear in his canvas tennis shoe trying to rip his sole seeming so much more detrimental and obvious. His shoes were just going to fall apart right here in this restaurant, and people were going to insult him with snooty tones and stuck-up noses.

He grabbed the door after him and stepped through the threshold, nearly jerking back at the potent aroma of garlic and spices leaking through the air. He shuddered, suddenly basked in a mix of soft daffodil and amber lighting, taken away from the insanity of the city with the subtle tinting of window screens and outside noise shutting off at once as the door softly clicked shut behind him. The sounds of wine glasses clinking and silverware scraping against plates danced under the pleasantly comforting sounds of gentle conversation. It was stepping into an entirely new world, one that felt like it was inviting him in with its soft edges and calming tones, nothing like the outside, where sharp angles and blaring light and sound told him 'this is the city, you have to keep your ass moving'. He glanced up at the sight of holiday lights wrapped around rafters and peeking behind silk olive leaves like the stars of a Sicilian night.

Chad looked around a bit, spotting a curly, blonde head finally looking over at them and waving. Bebe raised her brow a bit, bidding her table a good meal before turning and walking towards the two of them, her eyes landing on Kenny and smiling softly. "Chad, what brings you here?" she cooed. "And just _who_ is this tall fellow with you?"

Kenny glanced down at her voice distracting him from the soft melody of _Mi sono innamorato di te_ wafting through hidden speakers, blinking at the woman talking to his companion but still staring at him. Hazel eyes disappeared time and again behind light, fluttering lashes. He couldn't help but feel his lips curl into a slight smirk at the attention, giving her a little wave that she happily returned. Chad rolled his eyes with a smile and laughed. "Where's Kyle?"

Her face fell a bit with the name and she finally looked back at Chad's waiting expression. "He's out back," she said slowly, voice dropping down and glancing around for eavesdropping patrons. "He had a customer lose it at him not too long ago and needed to calm down before he hit someone."

Chad blinked, looking around at the packed house, "Really? _He_ took a break?"

"He _does_ take them now and then, ya know. Believe it or not this isn't _all_ he thinks about," she subtly rolled her eyes, Kenny cocking his head at her quiet, annoyed scoff that seemed to bypass Chad entirely. "But this guy almost decked him so I made him step out."

Kenny winced, rubbing his arm before elbowing Chad. "Dude, if he's in a bad mood, the last thing he needs is for me to talk to him," he tried.

Bebe looked up at him once more and smiled. "Lookin' for a job, Sweetie?"

"Kind of?" he winced. "Was a bit spur-of-the-moment."

"Hm," she mused, holding her hand out, "Name's Bebe. Head waitress. You?"

He grinned, shaking her hand back, "Kenny. Currently a gas station attendant. Not the head one."

She chuckled, taking her fingers back and nodding. "Well, we need all the help we can get, Hon. So, just don't insult him, keep yourself calm, and you have a pretty decent shot at winning him over. He's an absolute _sweetheart_ if you get on his good side." Kenny nodded, making a specific note to follow that directive to the letter. Chad made a soft, unbelieving hum, avoiding her gaze as it hit him again, her eyes narrowing in just the slightest before she perked back up with a practiced grin. "Go around back, the kitchen is insane right now," she insisted, pointing back to the front door. The boys thanked her and turned to head out. "Good luck, Kenny!" she called, Ken turning back and flashing her another smile, relieved out of his mind that he hadn't found himself staring down someone _terrifying_ as his first experience. That'd happened in one too many job hunts, the scrutinizing eyes of the first-in-line bearing down on him and warning him that this was _their_ turf, and he was nothing but someone who needed to grovel for his employment.

He followed Chad back out into the street, nearly pouting at leaving such a serene environment. Chad glanced at him and grinned as he lead him around the side of the building. "So. First glance?"

"Classy. As. Fuck," he laughed in disbelief. "Definitely not any kind of joint I've ever been to, that's for sure."

"He does his best to keep it classy," he chuckled. "He worked himself half to death to get it there. And continues to do so," he sighed, shaking his head. Kenny cocked his brow, about to question him about the drop in tone before they rounded the corner, movement catching his attention. Kenny glanced up to see a short redhead pacing back and forth between the back of his building and another's, a cigarette clutched between tremoring fingers.

"Dude," he whispered, "You sure this is an okay time?"

Chad blinked at Kyle's pacing and sighed through his nose, lips forming a tight line in disappointment. Kenny raised his brow before Chad stepped forward once again, stumbling to stay with him. "Thought you quit!" Chad called.

Kyle stopped in his tracks, whirling to face them and blinking. His face started shifting hues, looking between him and the smoldering stick clutched in his fingers and clearing his throat. "I quit when people aren't trying to throw _fettuccine_ on me," he shrugged, looking down at his feet for a moment.

Kenny raised his brow at the heavy Italian inflection seeping into the pasta name, inwardly cringing as he remembered Craig's foray into learning French in high school, revealing to Kenny only years later that it was to 'better understand their filmography'. The _pretention_ never ceased, elongating each phrase with such an ear-grating confidence, correcting every goddamn person's attempt at pronouncing a word themselves until they declared that French was fucking stupid and a waste of time to learn anyway. Kenny only had to punch him in his snobby face three times before he finally got the hint. The pronunciation was still there, and the exasperated sighs when someone else failed to meet his standards of correctness lingered, but he wasn't _as_ bad. Kenny bit his lip, wondering if he was just looking down at the goddamn short, Italian-speaking, redheaded version of _Craig_.

Chad sighed again and shook his head, a small pout on his lips before he straightened back up. "Kyle, this is Ken… uh… you know I don't actually know your last name," he looked up at him and waited.

Kyle glanced up as well, as though noticing Kenny's presence for the first time. He blinked, head tilting higher than he thought he'd have to, Kenny almost laughing at how far back he had to go before they could finally make eye contact. He didn't think he'd meet anyone shorter than Tweek back home at his measly 5'9", but here he was being proven wrong, just shy not more than two inches of his twitchy friend. "McCormick," he finished, holding out his hand.

Kyle nodded, keeping his cigarette in his left fingers and twisting to keep it out of Kenny's airspace as he shook his hand. "Kyle. Kyle Broflovski."

"Don't worry about that," he jerked his head towards his cigarette as he took his hand back. "Half a pack a day myself."

He smirked, straightening back out, but keeping the tobacco clear of Chad's scrunched expression. "You seem a lot prouder of that than most of us."

Kenny shrugged sheepishly, "Well, I'm not gonna stand here and lie and say that I hate it. If I did, I'd quit. May as well just embrace it." Kyle snorted softly, giving him a short, agreeing nod and looking back at Chad and his still-disappointed face. He cringed, tucking hair behind his ear and fiddling to straighten his rolled-up sleeves.

"So, why're you here?"

Chad cleared his throat, gesturing to Kenny again, "Ken here is looking for a job in the city. Thought maybe you could help him out."

Kyle blinked slowly before his face suddenly fell in a frown just grazing the cusp of anger, Kenny nearly flinching at the shift in demeanor. "Oh. So, you thought that springing a surprise interview on me while I'm covered in _ginestrata_ would be a-okay?" he gestured down to his green bistro apron splashed with soup.

Kenny cringed, "Look, it wasn't cool of him to do this, we'll leave you alone," he tried rambling out, tugging Chad's arm as the two of them remained staring at each other, all but ignoring his finicky disposition.

Chad shrugged, scratching at his hair. "You keep saying how you're overwhelmed… he could be a busser. You said you were still looking for at least one."

"Well, yes but…" he paused, shoulders sinking and an irritated sigh leaking out of him before taking a long, heavy drag of his cigarette. He glanced back up at Kenny's cowering expression and he winced. "Look, sorry. You caught me at a really shitty time. Just had a customer yell at me that his 'uneducated Laotian grandmother' made better Italian food than me trying to score a comped meal."

Kenny winced, "I work retail, Man. I get insulted like that every ten minutes. I feel ya."

He finally broke from his scowl into a half-hearted smirk, "Unless you went to school for four years to hone your cashiering skills and call it your craft, it's not _quite_ the same. Still a bitch nonetheless."

Kenny nodded in agreement. "All part of the job, though."

"Unfortunately," he sighed, looking between the two of them and bringing his free hand up and rubbing his temple. Chad gave him a tiny, pleading pout and he sank in the slightest. It couldn't hurt, he reminded himself, thinking of his strung-out staff getting antsier with each passing day. Kyle turned his attention solely back to Kenny. "So. Any restaurant experience?"

"Yes," he nodded vigorously. "I did bussing duties for a Chinese restaurant for about eight months."

"When was this?" he asked, taking another drag.

Ken blinked before cringing in the slightest. "Um… w-when I was… ten for about a month. Then I came back in when I was twelve for the other seven."

Kyle squinted, "Was… was this _in_ China or-"

"No… I just _really_ needed the money and the owner wanted to help for as long as he could afford me."

Kyle raised his brow, shooting Chad a glance who just shrugged. "Okay… You said you work retail. Whaddya do?"

"Um, I work at a gas station. Just cashiering and stocking and clean-up. That kind of stuff. I've worked a few other retail jobs since I was in high school, all the same kind of stuff."

"It usually is. Not much variety in customer service," he said with another sigh. "So, you've never had to get ServSafe certified?" Kenny stared at him with confusion glazing over light blue eyes and Kyle nodded to himself. "Well, that answers that." He looked again at Chad who smiled in encouragement, Kyle glancing down at the cigarette in his hand and shaking his head. "Listen," he started, looking back up at Kenny, "you _have_ to understand something: I am _desperate_ for people right now. My annual inspection is coming up, I have a slew of people who just walked out on me for school, I have a _very_ cranky wait staff with their hours, and I am goddamn on my second month of staying back for two hours to do dishes. I need someone quick and efficient," he counted them off on his fingers. "Are you both of those things, Mr. McCormick?"

He nodded confidently, "Yes. Absolutely I am."

"Do you take orders well? Because you'd be at the bottom of the roster as a busser," he cocked his brow. "If you have a problem being told what to do, then this is not the right job for you."

"Consider me a walking chore bitch," he grinned sheepishly. "I would just be here to work, Mr. Broflovski, not screw up your system."

Kyle let out a small huff of a laugh. "First off, it's Kyle. Secondly, I'm impressed; most people fuck up my name the first few times without reading it." He glanced over at Chad and stared at him wryly, "Some don't get it right for about two months."

"I said I was sorry," Chad pouted.

Kyle smirked, looking back up at Kenny and sighing, giving him a soft nod. "Like I said, I'm desperate for people. There's a surprisingly small amount of people in this city willing to start out at the bottom. So if you want this, we can go talk in my office and discuss details about you getting a shot. I usually don't interview anyone with such limited experience, but I'm really being pressured by my staff… And if Chad is vouching for you I can only assume you're not a _complete_ moron, so we can at least talk about it."

Chad snorted, "Wow. Thanks for the confidence."

Kenny nearly flinched back from the offer, not able to comprehend getting a chance on the spot. Usually he'd be stuck trudging through the agonizing week-long waiting period sitting by the phone, _praying_ that it'd ring with an interview opportunity. "Y-yeah, that'd be… wow, that'd be great," he grinned brightly, practically feeling the twinkle bouncing in his eye.

Chad beamed, elbowing him lightly, "I can scram and come get ya once you're done so you don't get lost headin' back towards DePaul."

Kenny broke his stare from the exhausted chef over to him and nodded. "If he's okay with it."

"I offered, didn't I?" Kyle shrugged. "I may have to duck out now and then to help get the kitchen back under control, but other than that, they'd just be happy to know there's a potential dishwasher in the building."

"All right," Chad clapped once and grinned at Kyle. "Settled then. Just text me when you're done, Ken." Kenny nodded and Chad stepped over to Kyle. "Thanks."

"Thank _you_ for bringing me potential labor," he smirked tiredly. "Just… call me first next time, please."

He nodded curtly, "Deal." He leaned down and pressed their lips together, a click ricocheting through Kenny's head at the sight. They pulled apart and Chad's face scrunched, shaking his head. "Forgot about that," he pointed to his cigarette. Kyle frowned, gaze dropping a bit in embarrassment before Chad redirected and kissed his cheek, standing back up and nodding to them both. "I'll see you after awhile. Good luck," he elbowed Kenny on his way by, both he and Kyle watching him walking down and out of the alley.

Kenny blinked, mouth dropping in the slightest. "Ohhhhhh," he mused.

Kyle cocked his brow, glancing up at him. "What?"

"So, _you're_ the famous boyfriend I've heard so much about," he laughed, looking back at him with a small smile. "Didn't tell me your name or what you did. Know you love Williams-Sonoma and you're allergic to fuckin' cinnamon, but didn't tell me anything, ya know, _relevant_."

"Cinnamon oils," he corrected coolly. "Be a pretty shitty chef if I was allergic to an actual spice."

He nodded, "He didn't specify it was oils, he just mentioned it when we passed a Cinnabon in the mall. My bad."

Kyle chuckled before pausing, brow creasing. "Wait, he told you that shit but not my _name_? And passed a restaurant but didn't mention _mine_?"

Kenny blinked, giving a small, sheepish shrug. "N-not that I caught."

Kyle rolled his eyes, throwing his smoke onto the ground and grinding it out with his shoe. " _Cazzo seriamente? Come essere un_ _ **barista**_ _è così interessante…"_ He glanced up to see Kenny staring at him in bewilderment and cleared his throat. "You're gonna have to get used to that," he informed him with a small tint covering his cheeks. "Best coping method for me when I'm pissed off and can't let a customer understand me. Started it years ago with a boyfriend and it just kind of spiraled into a _really_ bad habit at this point."

He snorted, giving him a short nod. "Understandable. My friend back home does the same thing with German, and he sucks at it," he laughed. "Anything to help you make it through the day, Man."

"You have no idea." He sighed, straightening his sleeves once more and jerking his head forward. "All right, come on, let's see if you're a good fit or not."

Kenny nodded, stepping off after him to the back door of the building. "Thanks so much for any bit of a chance."

"Like I said, I'm pretty desperate, Mr. McCormick," he murmured, pressing the door open and allowing Kenny to step through, the newcomer's eyes widening at the sudden sound of clacking dishes and the sight of people scurrying around each other. The heat was immense from the stovetops and brick oven, frantic, short demands being spouted off by individuals as they scrambled to plate their creations and get them to their destinations. Kenny gaped at an array of flames bursting from under stockpots and skillets, the mingling scent of a vast array of spices sizzling along his sinuses. Tomatoes simmered off to his side and flawlessly garnished plates rested under searing heat lamps for a runner to take them out to the floor. Kenny couldn't help but bite the inside of his cheek as he followed Kyle deeper into the fray. He'd never been hit with such a sudden rush of hunger in his goddamn _life_.

"Two comin' behind, Nichole," Kyle called out behind a woman diligently flipping a skillet of garlic and onion atop a risen flame. He pivoted slightly to give her optimal room as he slid behind her, Kenny following his example to the letter. She glanced behind at them, giving Kenny a small, polite smile before turning back to her sautéing. "Keep your head away from the food," Kyle advised him, Kenny blinking down at the sudden mention.

"If a customer finds one of your hairs in their food, he's gonna shave your head," Nichole laughed. "Part of his orientation packet."

"You must be the reason I can't get anyone to accept their job offers," Kyle smirked at her before continuing to lead Kenny past the stoves towards the far more open-aired, welcoming prep areas. He pointed for Kenny to follow. "That was Nichole, she's our sauté chef." His finger shifted direction to a worrisome blond bent over onions and trying not to cry at the pungent aroma. He sighed, shaking his head, "That's Butters. He's our pantry chef."

"Nyet, 'e eez our keetchen beetch," a booming voice came from the brick oven, Kenny blinking at an enormous man holding a sheet of sizzling chicken breasts, hovering a good half a foot over himself supported by a bulky frame with the cheesiest of grins plastered on his face. It almost seemed unfitting for his towering form.

Kyle rolled his eyes, "That's Kashkov. Grill chef. And resident asshole."

"I remember dees next time you need some'tink from 'igh place, Ryzhevolosyy," he teased.

"Mhm, and _I'll_ remember _that_ signing your next paycheck, Buddy," he scoffed, continuing to lead Kenny towards the far-side office door. Kenny couldn't help but grin being caught in their rapport, feeling a cozy comradery that seemed to leak off each individual. He never got that back at the gas station, a few quips with Jess, a couple of offhanded snarky remarks with his boss. Not in a way where it felt familiar though, their talks only used as time filler between shift switches. Maybe it was merely because they were out of public view, their entire personalities shown here pushed off to the wayside if they set foot on that dining floor. Made more than enough sense; Kenny had to struggle for _years_ to learn to keep a laidback hick persona out of customers' sights. He could only assume, especially in a swanky joint like he was currently inhabiting, it was _more_ than true here as well.

Butters looked between Kashkov as he kept moving with his tray towards his station and Kyle, frowning. "Why does he always call me that?" he asked.

Kyle stopped, Kenny nearly bumping into him as he pivoted a tad to look at him. "Because, Butters, prepping is bitch's work. But we all do it. At least you can _understand_ what he calls you. I still have no fucking _clue_ what he calls me and I don't know how to goddamn spell it so I can't find out."

"Well… t-tell him to stop it," he nodded firmly. "You're the boss, he ain't got no right t' call ya somethin' ya don't understand."

"Butters, he could crush my fucking skull in with his goddamn fingers. And, more importantly, he never undercooks the chicken. I don't care if he's calling me Fag Queen Extraordinaire, I'll deal so long as we don't have a salmonella outbreak," he shrugged. Kenny let out a loud snort, covering his mouth and looking away as Kyle stared up at him amusedly.

"Priorities in order I see," Ken teased, glancing back down.

He shrugged again, "You learn to make sacrifices."

"For the good of the poultry."

Kyle smirked, "Exactly."

"Kyle?!" a panicked voice caught their attention, heads whipping around to two disheveled chefs followed by Jason and Red rushing towards him. Heidi came to a stop first, worry flickering wildly through hazel eyes. "We have a problem."

"Whoa, whoa, what?" he patted his hands against the air a bit before turning to Kenny. "Listen, you're not exactly dressed to be around the food, can you go linger by the dish sink?" he pointed to them off down their short little cleaning hall a few feet behind them.

Kenny nodded, "Absolutely," he turned, purposely tilting his head away from countertops he passed before turning at the sink and leaning against the wall across from it, watching as Kyle turned back to his frantic staff.

"Now. Heidi, what?" he asked.

"We're out of goat cheese," she gritted her teeth anxiously.

Kyle's shoulders fell and he breathed out, rubbing his temple. "Really? That's it? Jesus, you'd think we lost all our goddamn _tomatoes_ as scared as you-"

"Kyle, that's part of the special!" she reminded him.

His eyes shot open, blinking rapidly at the floor. "We have customers who want it," Jason added. "Do we tell them we're out or what?"

He narrowed his eyes, "We've only been open a few hours. How the _fuck_ are we out of it already, we have plenty of the steak still," he gestured to their meat fridge. "Did we have an influx of the _pomodori secchi_ or something?!"

"No! That's the problem!" Heidi squeaked. "We didn't get any from the vendor!"

Kyle looked around the kitchen, gritting his teeth. "Who took the vendor order this afternoon?" he demanded, voice booming over the clatter of dishes, his chefs coming to a halt and watching their fuming boss with wide eyes. "I _know_ I had a goddamn _surplus_ of cheese for today's special ordered, now who the fuck verified it?!" Kenny jerked back from his observing post, not expecting such an authoritative tone out of such a tiny person. A part of him could certainly see what Chad had meant when he said Kyle wasn't exactly Midwestern-bred either, not with that threatening level of vibrato echoing around the stifling room.

"Um… I-I did?" the chef next to Heidi winced, holding his hand up. "I-I… I thought I saw it!" he insisted.

Kyle stepped up towards him and crossed his arms. "Show me where you put it, Kevin." Kevin nodded briskly, hurrying towards the produce fridge and tearing it open, Kyle coming up beside him and watching him gesture to an organized stack of cheese logs along the bottom shelf. Kyle closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath. "Kevin. That's _mozzarella_ ," he hissed. "I just fucking paid _double_ for fucking _mozzarella?!_ Are you fucking _kidding me?!_ "

Kevin cringed, stepping back as Kyle slammed the fridge doors shut, teeth clattering. "I'm sorry," he squeaked. "We were in a rush to get stuff out and I just glanced over it an-" he halted as Kyle held up his hand, his other hand pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Listen. It happened. Fine. How many customers are wanting it?" he glanced up at Red and Jason.

Red winced, "I have three people, Jason has four. I think I heard one of Bebe's customers put in for one."

"Oh. Fantastic," he leaned his head back and groaned. That was a _lot_ of disappointed people, and there would only be more as the night pressed on to closing time.

"W-we're really running behind over here!" Butters winced.

"Same!" Nichole added. "Where's Bradley?"

Kashkov shrugged, "'ours vere cut. 'e 'ad to go 'ome."

"Fuck!" Kyle spat, watching everything falling into chaos at once and taking another deep breath. The kitchen needed wrangled back in. He needed to somehow get his fucking cheese, take care of the people, handle the fallbacks in his kitchen. He clicked his teeth. "All right. Nichole, what's wrong on your end?" he called.

"Someone needs to season the sauces, I kinda got my hands full," she winced, tilting her sizzling skillets.

He nodded. "All right. Heidi, you help Butters with whatever the fuck he needs," he pointed her to the prep station. "I'll take care of the sauces. You two," he pointed to Jason and Red who looked at him in full-attention. "Tell the customers that want the special that the wait will be a little longer, offer them a free app or dessert, we'll fucking do what we can to stall them. Inform the rest of the wait staff."

"That doesn't get us the cheese, Kyle," Heidi stressed.

"Oh wow, thanks, Heidi I didn't know," he rolled his eyes. "I'm not fucking losing steak sales, we're getting the fucking cheese. We need to run to Sonia's."

She blinked, "We don't have anyone with the time! We're backed up enough as is!"

Kyle paused, looking back at the blankly-staring Kenny who was lost in the whirlwind of emotions the kitchen seemed to be spiraling through. He turned and pointed, walking towards him. "How _badly_ do you want this job?" he demanded.

Kenny's eyes went wide at the attention of the kitchen turning towards him all at once. "Um… I-I mean… p-pretty… bad I think?" he winced. He didn't _know_. He hadn't exactly heard any of the perks yet, he didn't know just what kind of environment he was waltzing into. But from the scene he just witnessed, a part of him could just feel those lazy, bored afternoons leaning beside his register fading off and away. This place would take that nonchalance from him, make him keep moving, stay on his toes around a boss that was more than a corporate shill, but was hanging onto _his_ baby.

That seemed like an awful lot of pressure.

"Thirteen fifty an hour," Kyle threw out. "What are you willing to do for that wage? Would you run to a store for that?"

His jaw dropped slightly, the _mere_ notion of a five dollar pay increase nothing short of _mind-blowing_. "I'd do a _lot_ for that much an hour. Including not-so legal things," he nodded eagerly. _"Holy shit this guy must be_ _ **rich**_ _,"_ he thought to himself in astonishment, watching Kyle dip under his apron and snag his wallet out of his pocket.

"Well, I'm not asking for that, but I _am_ asking you to be really fucking prompt and deal with a _very_ old Italian lady for my sake. Can you do that?"

Kenny nodded again. "Um, but I don't really… know the city that well…"

"Easy to spot," he assured him, fishing out a credit card and looking back up at him. "Driver's license," he said sharply.

Ken narrowed his eyes in confusion before his mouth formed a small 'o' and he fumbled for his own wallet. Kyle looked around at their gawkers and frowned. "Guys, come on! We got orders to fill, fucking step on it!" The onlookers snapped back into attention, turning to their separate tasks and hurrying around the kitchen to make up time lost.

Kenny bit his tongue lightly as he took out his wallet, a bit embarrassed at the torn Velcro item he'd had since he was a teenager against Kyle's matte leather accessory. He snagged his license and handed it over, Kyle scanning over it before placing it into his pocketbook. "All right, here's the deal," he said, shoving it back into his pants and holding the card towards him. "You have twenty-five minutes. That's being _extremely_ generous," he emphasized. "If you're one second later than that, I'll have the Chicago P.D. on you so fucking fast a goddamn Metra couldn't save you."

"Understood," he gulped, shakily taking the card embossed with Kyle's name and carefully hiding it within his wallet.

"Good," he nodded bluntly. "Now. Sonia's shop is a block down, take a left from the front of the restaurant," he instructed, Kenny nodding along slowly. "Then, take a right onto Polk. It's a building with a green and gold awning on the left-hand side, a specialty meats and cheeses shop. Tell her that I need her _entire_ goat cheese stock. I work with her all the time, so use my name and get what we need. Got it?"

"Got it," he confirmed, moving to turn before a soft hand gripped his wrist and he looked back down.

"Listen, she's very old and very slow," he warned him. "I don't care how, but speed her up as _much_ as you can. I'll keep customers distracted for the time being but I need you to _run_. You get here in time, you get the job, no interview required. All right?"

Kenny grinned and nodded, ignoring the frightened, adrenalized palpitations of his heart. "Not a problem. Back in a flash," he promised with a wink, carefully stepping his way around the kitchen staff before bursting through the back door and hightailing it away.

Kyle watched after him with a gulp before the door finally clicked shut. Moving back over towards Nichole, he began snagging spices from the hanging rack beside the sauce station, dousing his marinara in dried herbs with his chest clenching in worry. Nichole bit her lip, "Did you really just hand the company card to some guy you don't _know_?" she winced.

He shrugged, "I was out of options, Nichole. No way could I run out and she doesn't exactly make deliveries. I have his license. If things go wrong, then they do…" his shoulders sank, snagging a wooden spoon from its resting spot beside him and sifting through his sauce. He closed his eyes, taking in the potent aroma of simmering tomatoes and basil, letting it fill him with familiarity, with comfort. He just set the hopes for his entire day's profits on a man he'd met not ten minutes before, and it was terrifying. He could just _hear_ his mother lecturing him on how he'd made a potential bad business decision, a snap judgment that could cost him a _lot_ in the long run if he hadn't placed his bets on the right player.

But, his first impression had left Kyle with the notion that he _seemed_ fairly straightforward and honest, little as they had talked so far. He wasn't the best at reading people, but his instincts more often than not took him in the right direction, and he'd followed them all the way through their exchange. He opened his eyes back to the steam of his marinara and shook his head. All he could do now, he supposed, was hope he hadn't placed his livelihood into the wrong hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation: 
> 
> _Cazzo seriamente? Come essere un barista è così interessante..._ \- Fucking seriously? Like being a bartender is so interesting...
> 
> Bitter Kyle is bitter and I wouldn't have him any other way. Thanks for reading and commenting!


	8. It's Pronounced Bru-sket-ta

The weight of the world seemed to be in his pocket, his hand protectively cupping over his wallet as his feet slammed against the pavement with each sprint. He couldn't let it just fucking fall out and someone snatch up someone else's fucking money, he couldn't lose a chance for _so much fucking income_. Kenny was salivating at the thought more than the array of culinary prowess mere minutes ago could have coaxed out of him. His heart was thudding erratically, his steps clunky as he swiveled in and around the leisurely strolls of fellow city-goers. He was in a near-blind panic, time seeming to speed up around him with the ticking countdown getting smaller and smaller.

Kenny groaned under his breath, a part of him wondering why he was gunning so hard for this job he didn't know a damn thing about ten minutes ago. Sure, the pay sounded great, and at least it was just the one train ride into the city and easy enough to find by the waterfront. But Kenny _also_ had a bit of a stigma he'd carried with him all his years of employment: Do _not_ work for workaholics. He'd been under far too many in the last decade, always driven to the brink of losing his shit because of how _demanding_ they seemed to get. When one's life revolves only around their job, they tend to forget how to be an actual _person_. And Kyle, in their brief encounter, seemed far more driven than anyone he'd dealt with in the past.

He gulped, saying a quick sorry as he nearly bashed into a distracted woman on his way towards the distant street corner. Maybe it was different here. Kyle wasn't being hounded by district managers and a CEO calling him to berate him about a 2% drop in sales from their third yacht. It was just him at the top, having to balance every single iota of business; it was both a blessing and a curse Kenny could only assume. He'd only worked for one other person like that, and Mr. Kim was the furthest thing from 'successful'. At least by Chicago standards. Few customers passed through his doors, he had to consistently borrow money to keep City Wok from going straight down the drain. He wasn't in constant competition with other restaurants of his trade like Kyle had to be.

But, closing down on one of his last nights in his youth, the man had all but unloaded all his woes onto a preteen just trying to get some pocket money to pick up some on-sale Marie Callender's for himself and his siblings. His boss had told him to never own a business, that it was more hassle than it was worth. That taking on _all_ that pressure on yourself could very well send you buckling down, ruining relationships like it had with his own wife and watching your dreams and years of work going up in MSG-soaked smoked. And that was from a man who only did weekly runs to the local supermarket for his ingredients, choosing to opt out of vendors because it was far too expensive for a struggling location. Apparently, Kyle kept his place running high-paced enough he needed _daily_ deliveries and a kitchen full of professionals in a nonstop frenzy.

Kenny just wasn't sure if that was better or worse than watching sad Mr. Kim wiping down unused tables for something to do.

He came up to the corner, chest heaving a bit as his lungs fought against the brisk autumn air and his feet bouncing as he waited for the damn crossing light to turn. He glanced up at the street sign beside him, the topmost reading 'Polk St' and he clicked his tongue. He turned his head to look down the street, narrowing his eyes over traffic and searching for this telltale awning Kyle had informed him of. A small groan left his throat, unable to tell from the distance. Hopefully it'd be a bit more conspicuous as he got closer.

He jerked a bit at a sudden vibration under his fingertips, glancing down at his pocket and letting out a sigh as he ripped out his phone. He blinked, gulping at _'Jess'_ illuminated across the LCD screen. _'She knows,_ ' he thought before clearing his throat and swiping his thumb across the screen, eyes squinting as the speaker reached his ear and he struggled to understand over the tumultuous sounds of the city. "Sup?" he answered, trying not to sound as winded as he already felt.

" _Heeyyyy, how's my favorite coworker?"_ Jess cooed.

He rolled his eyes. Every fucking week. Every goddamn motherfucking week she did this. "What shift do you want taken?" he asked, voice dripping with derision he could only hope she couldn't make out over the hustle and bustle wafting around him.

" _Uh, today's?"_ she tried. _"My shift starts at five and I got offered a date to a concert-"_

"Gonna stop ya there," he interrupted. "I'm in Chicago, Dude. I can't even get close to home by then." Which, worked for him. He was sick of picking up her slack time and again. Snagging extra shifts for money was one thing, but doing so consistently and getting screwed over time and again by his manager cutting him off just below full-time hours just wasn't worth that extra forty dollars.

She paused, Kenny just barely making out her irritated sigh. He glanced up at the sign changing signals at last, picking up his pace and dashing ahead of the other crossers. _"You're sure?"_

"Jess, I know how to tell time."

" _I thought you_ _ **hated**_ _the city, why are you there?"_

He frowned, hitting the opposite walkway and taking a hard right, speed walking down the concrete with his eyes peeled for his destination. "Trying to expand my horizons," he said. _'Out of the gas station and into something far away from your dude drama,'_ he thought bitterly, scanning briefly over a shoe shop. "My roommate offered to take me out for the day so here I am."

She let out a long, frustrated groan. _"Damn. Really wanted to go to this concert…"_

"I dunno what to tell ya, Jess," he drawled, looking forward a bit and eyes widening at a prominently colored awning beckoning him towards it. "Good luck, gotta go, bye," he said hurriedly, hanging up before she could so much as register his words and shoving the phone back into his pocket. He gritted his teeth, breaking into another sprint as he headed down the street.

No wonder he was so intent on getting this damn job. More pay, probably less shift-switch drama, too. If Kyle was serious about his lack of help behind the scenes, there was probably no one _to_ agitate him with pleas for him to come in and do their share of the work. If he was at the bottom of the roster, he was _far_ out of scope of any of the chefs or wait staff trying to coax him into it. He wasn't in line with about fifteen other people all wanting their weekends off and wanting to live their lives. This could be beneficial, he told himself. Even if he wasn't allowed to be full time, that was still over $400 a week that'd be in his hands. He couldn't help the ecstatic grin creeping up his lips. That was so many cigarette packs, that was being able to cut a month out of waiting time to save up for a video game. That was being able to send Karen or Kevin some extra money if they needed the help without having to stagger bill payments as drastically as he'd had to manage in the past. Sure, he'd have to pay for transportation, but it was still less than what it would've cost to keep refueling his old truck if he'd worked downtown in Joliet.

This was a _good thing_ , he confirmed. So, he had to fucking grab a hold of it and not let it go. Even if his potential new boss seemed a bit neurotic, even if there would be no such things as a lax day of work or being able to come in with a hangover and stave through as he had several times in the past. It would balance out. He could finally be coming out on top of things for once in his goddamn life.

He sped closer to the colorful vinyl, nearly tripping and slamming face-first into a parking meter in his haste. Kenny's feet hit a hard stop as he found himself under the covering, eyes swiftly scanning over the painted window reading _'Canali's - Est. 1972'_ in a swooping, ivory font with golden flake trimming. He gulped, glancing through the window to see deli cases galore and he nodded curtly to himself. He'd give his goddamn left nut if this wasn't the right place. He practically burst into the homey shop, followed by the tinkling of a small bell hanging off the door. He let it close behind him and looked around frantically for a worker, surrounded by nothing but a quiet backroom radio and food.

Kenny's nose scrunched, overwhelmed by the pungent stench of salamis and taleggio. He stifled a surprised cough into the crook of his elbow, clearing his throat and walking up towards the front counter, shivering at the low temperature the shop kept to no doubt prolong their products' lifetimes. "Hello?" he called out. "Can I get some help, please?"

" _Just a moment, Honey!"_ a croaking but gentle voice called from the backroom.

Kenny's teeth clicked, his feet bouncing in impatience as he let his eyes wander about. He investigated the case nearest the register, bending down a tad and cocking his head at a wheel of cream-shaded cheese with a cracked orange skin wrapped around the block. His eyes flickered to the printed sign on a tiny easel in front of it. _'Brescianella – Ripened five months in Brescia and Cremona. Best paired with fruity wines and lagers.'_

He cocked his brow, never quite understanding the culture of pairing fine booze and cheeses. Granted, the closest he'd gotten to such a class act was a case of Pabst and biting into a block of Velveeta after a particularly rough day of work. He supposed he _wouldn't_ appreciate it with that kind of background. And looking at a price of fifteen dollars for an eight-ounce brick, it was no wonder he'd never meandered towards such a snobbish lifestyle.

His attention was stolen from wondering who the fuck would shell out so much for just some solidified cow milk as movement caught in his peripheral. He jerked his head up, smiling brightly at a ridiculously short woman shuffling his way from the back. She seemed caught in the throes of osteoporosis, but battling through it with a kindly smile and large eyes hidden through thick bifocals. "Hello," she cooed, voice thick with a drawling Florentian accent. "Can I help you?"

"Oh god yes," he laughed breathlessly, putting his hands on the counter as she finally made her way over. "I assume you're Sonia. I'm here on an errand for Kyle Broflovski?" he winced, relaxing in the slightest as her demeanor seemed to chipper even further with the mention. "He told me he needs _all_ your goat cheese, the vendor shorted him. And he needs it _immediately,"_ he emphasized.

She nodded in understanding, tapping a bony, shriveled finger on the countertop. "What kind does he need?"

Kenny froze, staring at her and his mouth gaping in the slightest. "There uh… there's more than one?"

She pointed to the end of the front case, starting to move that way and Kenny following along with her, teeth gritting subtly as he resisted every urge in his body telling him to just hop over the counter and carry her the rest of the way. Finally, they reached the end of the row, Sonia taking her sweet time sliding open the back-case door and pointing for him to follow along as she lead him through a journey of creamed cheeses that were far outside Kenny's realm of understanding what the differences could possibly be as similar as they looked. "I have some ircano, a salignon, just got in some of this lovely cavrin-"

"Um okay, okay," he held up his hands, eyes flitting between his options. Kyle said all the cheese, but he could only assume that one recipe meant _one_ type of cheese. Then again he mentioned two recipes. But apparently they used the same kind. Maybe. God he _just didn't know_. "Has he bought any from you before?" he tried.

She chuckled at the complete bewilderment over Kenny's face, so used to pretentious youths finding their way into her shop and pretending to understand her foods better than herself. "Yes, he usually buys the caprino," she pointed to a long white log prominently displayed on the top shelf.

He nodded, tonguing over his lips. Okay. Getting the option that the man himself tended to go towards. That was a fairly safe bet. If he needed more than that, he'd run right the fuck back out for him if he had to. "Okay, how much of that do you have?"

Thin lips pressed together as she hummed in thought. "Hm. I have a case that's only half emptied… so probably fifteen?"

"I need them _all_ ," he repeated. "We're on a really tight time crunch here."

Sonia smirked, nodding and gradually reaching into the case, rolling the cheese in the wrapping beneath it slow enough Kenny wondered if she thought she was pushing a goddamn boulder up a hill. "He must be if he sent someone without a uniform," she commented casually, bringing the log up and out of the case towards herself and setting it atop the glass display.

"Um, kind of don't work for him just yet," he winced. "I'm doing this to try to _get_ a job."

"Ah," she grinned, groaning quietly as she knelt to the underside storage and slid open the door. "That was nice of him to give you a chance. He's a very picky young man."

Kenny chuckled awkwardly, trying to silence his shoe from tapping on the tiled floor. "Yeah, I was warned about that."

"Very nice, though," she continued, reaching through various boxes as she searched for his order. "He brings in most of my income nowadays."

He smiled politely, gulping down a bout of nerves. "That so? Thought he was all about vendors."

"Vendors don't give you authenticity," she scoffed. "He comes to me when he needs something in particular. He came to me asking for sellers and where his best sources were for things he buys every day. But he'll come here for specialties." She let out a soft 'ah' as she landed on her target, genially pulling the box towards herself up and out of the case.

Kenny nodded, scratching through his hair and looking around her shop with a quiet sigh. "Makes sense. Seems like this would be his kind of place. Given I've only known him like, twenty minutes but I just figured."

Sonia laughed, struggling a bit to lift the cheese box from the ground and fight her way back up. She glanced to see Kenny on the verge of offering his assistance and shaking her head. "Not a word, young man. I have it." He sealed his lips, nodding curtly and she smirked. "He came here first, you know," she said, a hint of smugness in her tone. "Before he opened his restaurant."

"Really?" he asked, watching her finally begin shuffling her way back towards the register, snagging the log from atop the case and making way down with her.

She nodded, "Sucked right up to me. Told me he wanted to 'learn from the best'," she quoted with a chuckle. "I knew what he was doing, but he was so darn charming about it. I actually just let him cook for me for the first few months of business he was so good at his sweet talk since he couldn't quite afford a lot of great ingredients yet. That little talent is how he gets _all_ his vendors."

Kenny cocked his head as they met at the front counter, not quite able to imagine the tiny ball of fury he'd witnessed being able to smooth his way into decent produce. "Seriously?"

"Mhmm," she nodded once more, not seeing Kenny's eye twitching in impatience as she began pulling the caprino from the box to lay on the counter and count one at a time. "He had to make up for being such a young thing, or at least that's what I figure," she shrugged. "But he's over quite a few people my age on their lists."

"Wow," he murmured, rubbing at an eye. "I'm guessing that's not _just_ because he can suck up."

"Oh no, of course not," she assured him. "He just knows what he's doing in the kitchen. He's made samplers for my shop more than once when I'm too tired to do so. Told me he owes me for the rest of his life for my help, so I'm taking that to heart," she laughed. "He seems to enjoy doing so though."

Kenny smirked lightly, "Well if you helped him so much, I'm sure."

"Not just that. Have you seen him cook?" Kenny shook his head and she grinned knowingly as she finished her count. "So, you've only seen his _business_ side."

He shrugged lazily, "I guess that's accurate. And I only saw that a few minutes, he kind of lost his… _stuff_ at his staff when he found out they screwed up the vendor order," he worded carefully, not quite wanting to throw shits and damns at this sweet old lady before him.

She snorted, fingers tracing over her keypad as she began to type in her codes. "Then you haven't actually met him yet."

Kenny sighed, leaning down and propping his cheek up in his palm. "Really? Gotta tell ya, he was kind of… terrifying."

Sonia shook her head, only having seen Kyle lose his temper once herself. Three years prior at an event of her own, just utterly losing his patience with a rude couple who wouldn't stop questioning her 'tastes' and demanding to know what authority she had in the matter. She'd never seen someone flip on a dime like that, from utterly pleasant customer service to a viper threatening up and down that he was going to find the hardest loaf of ciabatta and shove it down their throats if they didn't back off and leave. He'd apologized to her up and down after realizing what he'd just done upon their departure, but she was nothing short of tickled. He had _audacia_ , something all-too-rare in their field as they were shoved down to being nothing more than smiling floormats. She had told him she didn't know how he functioned so well in his own restaurant with his quick attitude, him just shrugging sheepishly and telling her a simple _'Why do you think I'm a chef and not a waiter?'_.

"He has a mouth on him," she agreed. "But he told me he used to be much worse. Now he only snaps if you deserve it, or so he says."

Kenny snorted, looking subtly at his phone for the time and gulping. He had plenty of time left but he was still a nervous wreck. He just wanted this to go well, less he end up on that side of Kyle's apparently well-known temper. Quicker the better, but with Sonia taking her time as she was, pleasant as the conversation may be, he was wasting time he _could_ be using making a decent impression. "Y-yeah," he stammered, wondering if he was really crossing a line trying this with someone Kyle respected so much, but knowing some selfishness was called for here before the cops tackled him down. "He'll _really_ lose it if he doesn't get this cheese," he shrugged. She gave him a questionable look and he cleared his throat. "There's apparently some… high… profile food critic at the restaurant," he lied, wondering if those were even a real thing or if he'd just seen them in goddamn cartoons. "Kyle's freaking out. If he doesn't get the critic what he wants well… you know how it goes. Bad review, less customers, and well, doors get closed forever," he shrugged. "Hate to be the reason that happened and you both lose so much money, ya know?"

She considered his words, grabbing a bag from beside her and tossing it on the counter. "Pack while I ring up," she said in a stern tone before redirecting her focus. Kenny looked down at her fingers suddenly finding their rhythm along her keypad and couldn't help but smirk. He swiftly packed the caprino into a small, sturdy-handled paper bag, reaching down and snagging his wallet from his pocket. He dug through and behind his own cards, pulling out the gleaming, daunting golden card as she clicked her tongue and nodded her head with each individual count.

' _Hopefully I didn't just fuck things up already,'_ he prayed, tapping Kyle's card quietly on the countertop.

"All right, luckily we had eighteen left," she informed him. "So it'll be $183.39."

Kenny's eyes widened, silently handing her the card and not quite comprehending as she started dealing with the information. _'For_ _ **cheese**_ _? What, is it fucking made with_ _ **diamonds**_ _?!'_ he thought. He gulped, wondering if he really was just _not_ cut out for this kind of world. Culinary escapades seemed brutal, pricey, and full of drama and politics from just this brief glimpse. He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath from his reeling shock. _'Ken. You'd be a fucking busser. This shit wouldn't mean anything to you. This isn't even_ _ **your**_ _money and you don't know how it all works. Fucking calm the shit down you have to fucking focus.'_

"All right, Dear," she said with a nod, Kenny opening his eyes again and taking the card back, hurrying to stuff it into his wallet as she slipped the receipt up and into the bag.

"Thanks so much," he said with a smile, shoving his wallet back into his jeans and snatching the bag off the counter. "Have a good day, nice talking to you," he practically slurred out his pleasantries in his haste, turning on his heel with the goods preciously clutched against him.

She chuckled, watching him with a smile and a small wave. "Good luck getting the job, Dear. I'll yell at Kyle for you if you don't get it."

He shot her another grin before booking it out of the store, shoes once more slapping against the concrete as he rushed towards the corner once more. He couldn't bear to look at his phone, didn't want to see if she'd just wasted twenty minutes of his time since it _felt_ like a goddamn hour and a half. He gulped, dancing in and around people as he ran. Hopefully, for once, things would work out in his favor.

* * *

"I'm _just_ saying, as much as this place _costs_ , you would _think_ that you wouldn't run out of supplies," the man sitting in front of him drawled.

Kyle kept his sympathetic smile plastered over his face, hands clutching together as he brought himself down into more of an understanding tone. "I know, Sir, and I'm sorry. We're fixing the problem as _quickly_ as we can. But until then, we have appetizers that I'd be _more_ than happy to whip one up for you for the inconvenience. Or I can put aside a dessert for you to take home once your meal is out and ready-"

"Why charge so much if you're not going to keep up with customer demand?" he cut him off.

"Oh god, Mike, _stop_ ," the woman with him groaned, hiding her face in her hands and shaking her head. Kyle shot her a quick look, feeling a string of pity. Seemed he had someone who liked to frequent this game, someone looking for more than a free tiramisu and wanting to walk out full of comped wine and steak.

Not fucking happening.

He turned his attention back to the man, that smile still secured, locked in place until he could get back into his kitchen and stomp his foot in absolute fury. "Sir," he tried again, "We were given the wrong vendor order. I have someone out and getting the ingredients for your meal right now. He'll be back any minute and it'll be out to you within ten of that."

"You're making excuses," he sneered, looking him up and down. Kyle inwardly groaned, knowing from his skeptical gaze _exactly_ where this conversation was about to head. He'd trekked down it far too many times before to not recognize the telltale beats. "You the manager's son?"

"No. I'm the owner. And the manager. And the head chef." he said, fighting to keep the irritation out of his tone. "Have been all four years we've been open, Sir."

"Didn't know they let teenagers run restaurants that weren't _Burger Kings_ ," he cocked his brow.

The woman looked up at him, mortified. " _Stop it_ ," she hissed.

Kyle looked back at her and smiled reassuringly, more than happy to give the _reasonable_ patron a symbol of gratitude for their presence. "No, no, it's fine, Ma'am. I take that as a compliment." Well, maybe not. No grown-ass adult wanted to be constantly reminded of the fact that they were still carded for wines they ordered in fucking bulk. But he didn't need her feeling guilty for this guy's ridiculous accusations. There was enough tension already. He turned back to _Mike_ and shrugged, "I'm twenty-six, Sir. Well old enough to run it. Now, would you be interested in the free appetizer or dessert? Or would you like me to give you some time to mull it over?"

"Please," the woman said, touching his arm briefly before pulling it back. "Just… we'd _love_ the bru _she_ tta if that's available. This isn't a problem. Not at all," she assured him.

Kyle smiled back at her, not even bothered by her butchering of the term as he so often found himself on the receiving end of, both flat-out ignoring the man with them trying to protest letting him off the hook so easily. "One bru _she_ tta coming up," he promised. He had his out and he was damn well taking it and getting away from the insulting pile of shit sitting with her. He whirled around on his heavy heel and briskly made his way back towards the kitchen.

"Why do you do this? You _always_ do this!" he could hear her lecturing the man and his pathetic, whining excuses following. He sighed, stopping by a table near the door and smiling at a group of four.

"Everything all right?" he asked politely. Mouths covered and half-stuffed with food mumbled confirmations and compliments and he grinned a little wider, fucking needing that after dealing with such annoyances. "Good to hear. Just holler if you need anything," he informed them, giving them a nod and continuing on his way out of the dim lighted dining floor and back into his comfort zone. He escaped through the threshold and groaned, rubbing his temple as soon as he was out of sight and heading back into the fray.

He glanced around, seeing Butters dealing with another round of chopping vegetables. "Butters!" he called, making way towards him. "I need _bruschetta_ ten minutes ago! I got the topping, you handle getting the bread ready!"

"On it!" Butters nodded, carefully setting down his knife and rushing off to Annie's station with the other baked goods. Kyle slipped into his place, shaking his head and muttering to himself as he pushed Butters' current project out of the way and snatched a tomato, beginning to hurriedly dice through the juicy mess.

His eyes flickered to the clock, gulping nervously. Kenny still had time, but he could only imagine how Sonia was keeping him held back, if he even _made it_ to her shop. He shook his head firmly. No. No Chad wouldn't have handed him a fucking _thief_. It was all going to be just fine. Only one irate customer for the delay, everyone else _more_ than happy with his offer to keep them sated. He had to thank his lucky stars for that one, it wasn't exactly a common occurrence to have only a single person berating him or his wait staff for such a situation. Just another day, just another reason his staff was giving him looks of _'these scenarios are why you need to stop being so fucking picky and_ _ **hire people**_ _, Kyle'._

He groaned to himself as he finished a second tomato, reaching onto one of the station's shelves and swiping a bowl from the confines, sliding his tomatoes into the mouth and setting it aside as he wiped his juiced hands clean. Kyle took a steadying breath, snatching the olive oil from the corner of the countertop and drizzling a couple teaspoons' worth over the fruits. They were right. This was _far_ too close a call. He needed people and he needed them _now_. Having to cut down on overtime hours and losing some of his workers during the week from sickness or appointments was going to run him straight into the goddamn ground if he didn't find a way to get it all back under control. Kyle sighed at himself, grasping onto his salt and pepper mills and grinding the seasoning over the mixture beneath him, eyes glazing with tiredness and just an inability to know what the next step forward was.

He barely had time to interview anyone. He was so _sick_ of always being so late going home from having to handle the dishes on his own. He knew eventually he'd hit a harder time getting through his workday, he just didn't think it'd happen so _soon_ into his business. _'You'll figure this out, Kyle,'_ he assured himself. _'Just take it one step at-'_

"Comin' behind, sorry!" an anxious voice piqued through the madness of the kitchen.

Kyle's head jerked up and he whirled around, eyes widening at a frantic-looking Kenny rushing towards him and awkwardly trying to angle his head away from the food. Kyle blinked, looking between him and the clock. Eleven minutes.

Only _eleven minutes_.

"Holy shit," he breathed out, looking up at the rasped, panting man as he set the bag by him on the counter and looked at him with exhausted blue eyes.

"I only got the caprino, she said that's what you usually get," he said quickly through deep gasps. "If that's wrong I can run the fuck back out and-"

"No, no, this is perfect," he nodded briskly, taking the bag from him and rushing it over to the grilling station. "Get the specials out _now_ ," he directed, getting confirmatory nods as Kashkov snatched up the bag and began working to unwrap a log of cheese and sending someone for a cleaned knife.

Kyle took a long breath of relief, looking back over to see Kenny leaning by an empty space of the prep station just trying to catch his breath as he stared at the ceiling. He cocked his head, noting a trace of worry in his expression. Kyle hummed to himself, making way back over beside him and crossing his arms, watching him carefully. "You okay?"

Kenny looked back down at him and gulped, grating over his lip. "I… I made it back in time… right?"

Kyle let out a disbelieving laugh. "You got here in _eleven minutes_ ," he emphasized. "How fucking fast do you run?!"

"Not as fast as I used to," he chuckled, visibly sinking with relief from the timestamp. "My baseball skills are lonnngggg gone."

"Well, then how the hell did you get Sonia to speed up? I gave you that much time because she usually holds everyone hostage for about fifteen minutes trying to chat."

Kenny cringed, Kyle blinking at the movement as the man cleared his throat. "I uh… I kind of… lied… to her?" he winced.

Kyle raised his brow. "What? What'd you tell her?"

He straightened up, refusing to meet Kyle's gaze and looking as Butters hurried past them with his broiled and garlicked bread to the topping Kyle had prepped for him. "Um… I-I told her that you had… a super important food critic here?" he shrugged, wondering if he should've just crafted a _different_ lie to tell Kyle. He was too fucking worn out to think of a decent one, however, so he pressed through. "A-and that if you didn't get the cheese, their review would bad and it'd cost the restaurant a lot so she'd lose your business?" he winced harder, realizing upon saying it aloud just how _stupid_ he sounded. He finally braved a look down at the chef, half expecting that pure rage to be seated back on his face.

Instead, he found Kyle just staring up at him blankly, trying to wrap his head around what he'd just been told. Kenny gulped, fingers gripping the edge of the prep counter and waiting to be shown the door from taking a stupid risk. They always said this. In corporate America, they don't _want you_ to do that, they just want you to follow protocol and do exactly as told. He should've listened better, he wouldn't be risking fucking cardiac arrest if he had.

Slowly, under the chaos surrounding them as they stared at one another waiting to press the matter forward, Kyle's lips curled into a smile, Kenny feeling his heart fluttering in pure relief at the expression. Kyle glanced around for anyone needing his help for the moment before looking back up at a noticeably happier Kenny and jerking his head towards his office with a pleased smirk. "Follow me, Mr. McCormick."


	9. Pepper Plus, Please

Why he hadn't sprung for an apartment a little closer to the ground, Kyle wasn't quite sure. He groaned, feet aching with each stair, a pronounced throbbing in his lower back putting him on the cusp of nauseated. He was so sick of this, the last few months full of these exhausting trips up five flights of steps. He supposed it could be worse, he could be one of the poor saps stuck on the twelfth floor while their goddamn elevator kept going down for maintenance.

His head dropped defeatedly, apron untied and being dragged behind him with limp fingers. He could only hide so much of its soup stains with his chef's coat, knowing it needed washed before tomorrow. He'd never understood that part of his job, how he was supposed to be immaculately kept while twisting and turning around simmering pots and pans, handling oils and dressings and dishwater. " _Un buon cuoco mantiene pulito, bambino cuoco,"_ Maestro Bernocchi had told him. _"Tu sei il capo, è necessario impostare l'esempio."_

Kyle grumbled, seeing the man telling him such things after he'd splashed a string of marinara over his pristine sleeve. A good cook keeps clean. If he was the boss, he had to be the example for his workers to take note of. Or at least that was Bernocchi's theory. Kyle could never say that the man didn't put that into practice, going so far as to have an office closet stocked with spare coats for himself so a customer wouldn't have to witness the "embarrassment" of a worrisome chef. He'd told Kyle that cleanliness was a sign of _mastery_. It showed that you were confident in your work, that a knife hadn't wobbled with hesitation as to whether the meat was fresh enough, or a ladle hadn't tremored with the worry that the spices were off-set. It made sense, Kyle supposed. Didn't mean he had to like it still being so deeply engrained that he flinched anytime so much as a rogue noodle came near his coat.

With a heavy sigh, he finally put his feet on the fifth floor, taking a long breath before turning and trekking down the hallway to the left. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, eyes drooping at the glowing 1:57 across the screen. His last customers had been out by 10:19, but his dishwasher only held so much and his tables still needed sanitized. Adding that to a fifteen-minute walk home and he was just beyond done with the night, ready to crawl into bed and not have to move until noon rolled around and he finally had to pry himself up from his comforter to get ready to start yet another shift. He shoved the phone back into place, fingers crawling down beside it and snagging through a keyring with eight clanging together as they were brought from their prison.

Kyle's lips pursed into a tired pout as he stared at them, wondering as he did every night, if he should just bite the bullet and buy a goddamn car. Once the snow started hitting, those ten-minute walks would feel like an hour. Strolling the quieted but not silent streets of Chicago was just unsettling in a way. It was obvious enough to anyone walking by him that he had a job with how he was dressed, and a part of him was always tensed, waiting to be jumped. He'd told Chad that one particularly late night a year prior, met with nothing more than a quiet laugh, reminding him that he was in one of the _safest_ areas of the city, that he had nothing to worry about.

Kyle had no idea how he felt so confident in that considering he'd lived there six years longer than him, but he just laughed along and forced himself to believe what he was saying. He'd only been mugged once in his life, and it was nowhere near the Midwest, so he could only assume there was some truth in what he said. But one fucking incident being thrown into a parked car when he was fifteen was more than enough to make him probably forever paranoid of having to once more blindly fight his way out of a situation, even if he somehow found himself in a goddamn suburb with white picket fences and a neighborhood watch.

At long last he came to door 5-04, flipping through his keys and trying to remember which one was where in his fatigue. One for the restaurant, one for his office, one for his safe, and one for the bank deposit box. Then one for his parents' house since, as they told him, he was always welcome to come in or out at any time, greatly encouraged to do so by his mother in fact. One for Stan's place, having free range to stop by as he pleased, just as the key for his own apartment on Stan's keychain granted him the same. One for his postbox in the ground floor mailroom, and finally, his fucking door key. He groaned under his breath as he finally made way to slip it through the lock, missing in his weary vision and adding to the scratches atop the brass. Kyle growled before finally doing as intended and managing to make his way into his home, practically stumbling in and scratching at his hair at the scent of hot food slamming into him.

He pulled the key back and closed the door, yawning as he redid the knob lock and twisting the deadbolt. "I'm home!" he called out, turning and looking at the couch, eyes glistening as he imagined just falling face down into it and snoozing away.

A figure moved into his view from the kitchen archway, Chad watching him with a grin laced with sympathy. "Late night, huh?"

"Ugh," he managed to reply, working to shrug off his coat and lazily lob it onto the hook by the door. "I wish I wasn't salary, I'd earn a killing in overtime from dishes."

Chad snorted, leaning against the wall and watching him starting to unbutton his chef's coat. "You set the payrates."

"Yeah, well I need to be fairer to myself," he rolled his eyes.

Chad smirked, "Well stop giving yourself the minimum raise every year then."

Kyle returned the expression, dragging his coat and apron behind him as he made way towards Chad, practically slamming the side of his face into his chest and just letting himself lean for a moment with his eyes closed. He smiled a bit at an arm wrapping around him and patting his back and he shrugged. "Any extra I make goes to the damn restaurant anyway," he reminded him. "May as well not get the taxes taken out, ya know?"

He laughed and nodded, kissing his temple, "Bad day?"

"No, just long as shit," he groaned, leaning back off him before he found himself nodding off, nearly jerking back at his face coming towards him before meeting him halfway with a quiet peck on the lips. He stifled another yawn, rubbing at his eye with his free hand, lifting his clothing a bit. "I gotta throw these in the washer."

Chad nodded, "I'll get dinner set." Kyle smiled gratefully, kissing him again before they turned and went their separate ways.

At least he had that to look forward to, having someone cooking for _him_ for once. The absolute _last_ thing he wanted to do coming home was find himself hovering over another stove, and Chad never seemed to mind just snacking until he got home and having a ridiculously late dinner. Or at least not that Kyle could tell. Wasn't the best food by _any_ means but it was better than nothing for the most part. He made his way past the den to the back laundry room, looking up at the washer set atop the dryer and groaning at the buttons set at the top row. Why the fucking installers put them in this order he'd never know, they had goddamn _seen_ the appliances out-heightening him.

He tore open the door and threw his dirtied fabrics into the tub, looking down at his t-shirt still on and shrugging to himself, ripping it off the same to join its comrades. It smelled like minestrone and dish soap, he didn't need that lingering around his apartment. Kyle shut the door, standing on his toes and grabbing the detergent from the sideline sink, gritting his teeth as he blindly poured into the pop-out dispensary.

" _Need any help?"_ Chad called from down the hall.

Kyle pouted, "No!"

He heard a pause and a quiet sigh before he continued, _"All right, dinner's ready when you are."_

"Be there in a second!" he replied, rolling his eyes. It'd only been fifteen seconds, Chad didn't need to _presume_ he needed to rescue the far-more-vertically challenged. He pulled back the detergent, assuming he'd gotten enough into the hold and continuing to hover on his toes as he slammed the dispensary back, turning the knob and listening to it chime along. He sighed, reaching over just a bit more to finally push the temperature dial in, listening to the locks kicking on and water beginning to drain towards the basin. A breath of relief left him as he lowered back onto the floor and put the detergent container into place, flipping off the washer before making his way back into the hall. He started towards the kitchen before pausing, looking down at his bared stomach and grumbling, hitting a hard left and making way to the bedroom. God forbid he show up at the table only half-dressed, last thing he needed was for Chad to give him that _'are you sure that's what you're intending to do'_ stare of his.

Passing through their bedroom door, he glanced around, finding last night's pajama t-shirt and snatching it from its discarded place on the foot of the bed. He slipped it back on as he walked back to the hallway, running his fingers in agitation through his hair. Every night he concluded that he just did far too much walking throughout his day, finding himself somewhat jealous of eight-to-five office workers and cashiers stuck standing in their one designated area all their shifts.

He knew that was ridiculous, that he'd lose his mind if he wasn't where he had worked so hard to be. Didn't mean he wasn't going to be grumpy every overworked night about it.

He stepped into the kitchen, Chad sitting at the table flipping through his phone. Kyle looked at the plate made for him, brow crinkling in the slightest at the assortment of _ivory_ atop his dish. He cleared his throat, taking his place across the table from him and Chad smiled at his presence, shoving his phone back into his pocket. Kyle took a closer look at his food, nose scrunching as he took in the aroma of… nothing. "Did um… did you _boil_ this chicken?" he asked, grabbing his fork and poking at it, watching it shred with ease at the tines. He winced, peeling off a slimed thread of frothed fat and sliding it off to the far side of his plate.

Chad shrugged, "My mom says it's the healthiest way to eat it."

Kyle raised his brow, "By like, thirty calories max over baking it . Besides, you're right in your range and every other person I meet tells me I need to gain weight. We're not exactly unhealthy people."

Yet another shrug followed, "No, but we're getting older."

He blinked. "Chad, we're barely near thirty. I don't think we need to worry about needing a coronary bypass anytime soon."

He chuckled, taking a bite of his own poultry, "Eventually that all that pasta is gonna catch up with you, Kyle. You don't exactly make the healthiest food."

' _No, because I like my food to taste_ _ **good**_ _,'_ he thought with an eyeroll, taking a bite of mashed potatoes and cringing as he swallowed down a dried, lumped concoction. God, he should've stopped at McDonald's. "Did you put any milk in these?" he asked, trying not to fucking sneeze at an influx of ground pepper invading his sinuses.

He shook his head, "No, we're out."

"Fucking how? I just bought some last night on the way home-" he paused, shoulders dropping. "Oh. You mean your… soy stuff."

Chad nodded in confirmation, taking another bite of chicken. "Tastes better that way."

Kyle sighed, cutting off a piece of chicken and stuffing it in his mouth, shaking his head at forcing himself to eat what essentially amounted to soggy cardboard. More than explained why when he made a lunch order, whoever made it for him _piled_ on the fucking cheese or flavorings. He figured he'd lost a little over ten pounds since living with Chad, no longer relying on fast food to get him through after a shift. He couldn't quite decide if he missed having a few Crunchwraps over homecooked "food" as Chad claimed it be.

Either way, at the very least it wasn't _him_ doing the work.

"I'm guessing that's how your _mom_ made it," he tried to force the sarcastic drawl out of his tone. They'd both learned to cook from their mothers, but while Kyle's encouraged him to experiment and cheered him on as he took himself further and further with applying her methods, Chad's, apparently, had not been quite so adventurous. Kyle had yet to meet her, only talking with her on the phone perhaps twice in awkward questioning sessions, but he loathed her. At least, the her that existed in the kitchen. The one that had taught her children _'oh, pepper is plenty of seasoning why waste the money for more flavor than that,'_ or whatever third-world mindset she'd grown up with herself.

Chad didn't seem to notice any hint of derision in his tone, nodding with a hint of pride. "Yep. Always made it for us when we had a bad day."

"…You got _mashed potatoes_ when you had a bad day?" he quirked his brow.

"Well, yeah, it was one of our favorites," he shrugged, taking a forkful. "Why, what'd you get?"

"Uh… anything me or my brother wanted? Usually he asked for her chocolate cake. I always aimed for her brisket. I dunno _what_ she puts in it and I'm not allowed to know until she croaks and I get the recipe, but holy shit, Dude. Better than sex, I swear to God," he smiled, wondering if he should take up that offer of hers and just meander on home for a weekend. Walk in unannounced with a pathetic look on his face and a _"Ma, I'm having a really hard time right now"_ just so he could get a few dishes to bring back to the city and analyze the living hell out of it.

Chad watched the dopey, wistful expression taking over his freckled face, his own lips curled in amusement. "You're not allowed to know until she dies?"

"Noooope," he said with a small sigh. "She keeps telling me it's 'so I'll have a moment of brightness in such an awful time in my life'. Personally, I think it's just because she knows how well I can follow a recipe so she just wants to hold it over my head so I'll come see her."

He laughed, shaking his head. "Still bitter that you left, huh?"

Kyle gave a small shrug. "No, not bitter. Just upset. I'm here, Ike is off in Connecticut. Empty nest syndrome hit her pretty hard from what my dad's told me."

Chad shrugged back, "Invite her and your dad to the city then. She'll get to see you and make your brisket or whatever if she wants and you can take them to your restaurant."

Kyle paused with a fork halfway to his mouth, leaning back up and clearing his throat. "Um… what?"

"Don't you want them to see what you've done?"

He smiled awkwardly, "Uh… they did already."

He raised his brow, "That was when you first opened, though. You've said it's changed a decent bit since then."

Kyle rubbed at the back of his neck, forcing out a quiet cough. "That's what pictures are for. The food hasn't changed very much. B-besides, there's nowhere for them to stay if they're here."

Chad stared at him like he was an absolute idiot. "Kyle. It's Chicago. There's more hotel rooms than there are people."

"Plus, you know, Dad _always_ has some big case going on. He can't just drop that to come visit, they barely have time to see Ike and he's only a few hours away," he continued, trying to bypass his suggestion entirely and praying he wouldn't take notice.

"Then… just invite your mom?" he suggested through a mouthful of chicken. "She doesn't work, I'm sure she'd love to see you for a few days."

He frowned, "Chad, all _I_ do is work. I'm not inviting her and then abandoning her for the restaurant. She knows I'm busy as shit, that's why we just have our weekly call. Eventually I'll head back towards home to see them but I have _way_ too much going on at work right now to even consider it."

Chad held up a defensive hand, patting it against the air, "Hey, it was _just_ an option thrown out there. No one's forcing you to do anything, Kyle. We all know work comes first for you." He took another bite of food while Kyle stared at him, eyes narrowing in the slightest.

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?" he demanded.

Chad glanced back up, seeing a telltale flare lighting through green eyes and he gave a prolonged sigh. "I didn't mean it in some bad way. Just that the restaurant is important to you, like it should be. Listen, let's just drop it."

Kyle took a long breath, looking down at his potatoes and listlessly stabbing at them. He wasn't exactly willing to do that, but if it got him away from the topic of his parents, he supposed he could let this one thing go. "Yeah. Fine."

He sighed again, subtly shaking his head as he watched Kyle picking at his food. "So, Ken said you offered him the bussing job?"

Kyle nodded, "Um, yeah. He did a favor for me so he earned it."

Chad hummed, smirking a bit behind his glass of tea, "Yeah, he told me you had him run to get cheese."

He shrugged, "Well, we needed it. He got it way quicker than I ever would have expected, that's for damn sure," he smiled a bit. "You've never mentioned him before, how long have you known each other?"

He looked up in thought, "About a week. He's the guy I went with to the mall when I got my new shoes that I told you about."

Kyle paused, blinking rapidly. "You… you practically put a _stranger_ in my restaurant?"

Chad cocked his brow, " _All_ of your employees were strangers before you hired them."

"Yes, but I let them speak for themselves, I didn't have your bias influencing me!" he protested.

He placed down his fork, rubbing his temple softly, "Kyle, he did what you needed, right? You haven't said something he did wrong so I can only _assume_ he impressed you if you hired him on the spot."

He sighed, dropping his eyes towards the table at the slight irritation in his tone and nodding. "Yeah. He did great. I'm sorry," he looked up at him sheepishly. "I'm really fucking tired. I did four and a half hours of dishes I just feel like shit."

Chad's face softened into understanding, "You've been running yourself ragged. Hopefully Ken and some other new people can get you back to how you were."

Kyle shrugged half-heartedly. "Hopefully. I have so much shit coming up, I honestly don't fucking know if I can deal with it before stressing myself into a stroke."

"Sure you will," he coaxed. "You always do. You just need to relax, it'll work itself out."

Kyle shook his head, "That's not how it goes in my case, you know this. _I_ have to work it out. _Everything_."

Chad cleared his throat, tapping his finger against the table and watching him carefully. "Have you ever considered getting an assistant manager in?"

"Heidi's my sous chef, that's practically the same thing," he scoffed. "At least in the kitchen. I don't _want_ office politics, that's the reason I didn't take any of the job offers I got after I graduated and went my own route."

"Wasn't that the plan all along anyway?"

"Well… _yeah_ but I _know_ how corporate works. I don't need an assistant manager going behind my back and… and rescheduling people o-or promising things that I can't deliver or wanting to change my policies."

Chad winced, looking down at his half-eaten food and sighing. "Can't you make it so they don't do that?"

"Weren't you hired _by_ your assistant manager?" he cocked his brow, getting a soft nod as confirmation. "See? I don't want someone with that power or someone gunning for my job. If I get hit by a car, then Bebe is first in line to grab hold of it."

Chad blinked, "Bebe is just a _waitress_."

"I have faith in her," he shrugged. "She's the one that taught me _how to be_ a manager outside of what I learned in school. But she doesn't know it's hers if that happens, and she's not _going_ to know unless I'm taken out or if she leaves at some point."

He watched him skeptically, "That doesn't seem like a very good business strategy."

Kyle narrowed his eyes a bit, "It's _my_ strategy. Besides, at that point she can tack on an assistant if she goddamn wants to or hand it to someone else. I just don't want someone I don't _trust_ to be running it."

"And if she hands it off to someone you don't trust?"

He took a stubborn bite of chicken, momentarily glad for the lack of seasoning preventing a chance of distraction. "Well one, I'd be dead. Two, she wouldn't do that. Anyone _she_ trusts, I trust by proxy. Why are you questioning me on this? I think I would know what's best for _my_ business."

Chad shrugged, taking another sip of his tea and dropping the glass from his lips with a quiet sigh. "I was just giving you another side of that plan. She doesn't have any management experience."

Kyle rolled his eyes, "I think she'd be great. I only had 'management' experience by title when I was a line cook before I opened. School doesn't count as experience in the business world, but I think I've done just fine without it and so would she."

Chad made a small sound and nodded, staring down at his plate. It was a bit of an odd topic for them to hit, one of the things Kyle had admitted to Chad that had given him the chance to open his restaurant in the first place. A lot of kissing ass to his previous employer and getting the meaningless position of 'kitchen manager' to slap on his resume. Kyle thought it was the funniest fucking thing, telling Chad about how he'd been about a half a step away from just letting his boss bend him over for the title, how it'd been months of sweet talking and bringing him different treats he made in school to warm him up to the idea. Chad, however, didn't find it _quite_ as humorous. Well, neither did so much anymore after it'd led to their first fight about three months into their relationship.

Chad was beyond adamant that what he'd done was dishonest, telling Kyle that he'd built his dream on a _lie_. Kyle was just _offended_ , snapping back that his tactics got him his dream _years_ ahead of schedule, that it wasn't as though he'd goddamn lied about being a fucking surgeon or something. They were both still firmly planted on their sides, but Chad had finally willed out of the battle, unable to match up to Kyle's quick-fire temper and the way he waved his monthly profits in his face. It was still touchy, both somewhat surprised Kyle had traipsed back towards the matter and feeling a tense, awkward air pulsing between them over the dinner table.

Kyle pushed his barely-touched chicken to the edge of his plate and sighed through his nose. "Do you work in the morning?"

"Eleven, yeah. Why?" he asked, letting out a breath of relief at the subject change.

"Can you throw my stuff in the dryer when you get up? I just really need to go to bed right now," he looked up at him exhaustedly.

Chad nodded, "Sure. No problem. I got the dishes unless you haven't had your fill tonight," he said with a lighthearted smirk. Kyle returned the expression before it dropped again and he pushed out and away from the table. Pivoting on his heel, he made the arduous journey out of the kitchen and back towards their bedroom, running his hands over his face.

He was too goddamn tired to be questioned right now. After two years, he'd figure Chad had to have known better when he was this out of it. He grumbled to himself as he walked through the doorframe, making slow work to take off his shoes and socks. He threw them carelessly down by his side of the bed and stripped off his pants, shivering at the exposure his boxers so cruelly provided him with. Kyle grunted, not caring enough to turn on his lamp for Chad to see as he plopped down into bed and slithered under the covers, delving his head into his pillow and sighing.

His ears perked with the distant sound of the sink, making a quiet sound of disgust knowing that Chad was leaving their dishes to soak as he did every night. He hated that, how he was so comfortable with food particles just floating about, waiting to grab onto him with a slimy hold when he completed them in the morning before his shift. Kyle had one rule when Chad had moved into his apartment: He cared little about what every other room looked like so long as they were decent enough for company, but he wanted his kitchen to be kept _pristine_. That'd lasted about three weeks before Chad told him his goddamn _mother's_ method of washing up and 'how it was better'. Kyle didn't care anymore. If he wasn't scrubbing them, then he wasn't allowed to complain about the process. Or at least that's what he'd convinced himself to believe.

He sunk deeper into the mattress as lights from outside began to shut off, hearing Chad making way into the room and beginning to undress, trying and failing to keep quiet as he nearly stumbled over his pant leg.

"Don't bust your head open," Kyle mumbled. "I don't have the hand-eye coordination to dial 911."

Chad snorted, worming his way out of his shirt and sliding to the other side of the bed, trying to climb in beside him making as little disruption as possible while he set his alarm. Kyle couldn't help but smile in the slightest. At least he was trying to keep him from losing his shit. Given, it was more than likely for his _own_ benefit as opposed to Kyle's, but whatever worked. Kyle twisted over a bit as he was settled down beside him, wriggling his way over and pressing himself against Chad with a shiver.

"Cold?" Chad asked, turning and draping his arm over him, fingers mindlessly trailing up and down his back.

He nodded, "This fall weather, man. I don't know how you stand it."

"By not usually being a living furnace like you," he chuckled, leaning down and pecking his forehead.

Kyle hummed, his hand trailing up and landing on his bicep, genially running his palm along the skin. "That's just 'cause I'm hot stuff," he worked out through a yawn.

Chad laughed and nodded, kissing him again. "The hottest of stuff."

"And don't you forget it," he tapped him a bit, tipping his head up and pecking his chin before his neck fell back down limply. His eyes creaked open in the slightest, seeing Chad staring at him and he sighed. "Sorry I'm a douche," he muttered.

"You're not a douche."

"I'm _always_ a douche, especially when I'm tired," he rolled his eyes. "Hopefully I'll be allowed to settle down after a while once I get more people hired in."

Chad nodded, "I know it's really rough on you right now. But it'll pick up, I promise."

"I hope so. Winter is our busiest season," he groaned, thinking about the flood of work lingering in the distance. From whenever the snow started until the weekend after Valentine's Day, they would be _swamped_. Given, there were few times when the restaurant _wasn't_ a packed house, but it just always seemed more daunting when lake effect snow was trying to lock them into the building. Plus, holiday attitudes were just not a good thing for the service industry. People stressed about not having gifts bought or snow tires properly secured on their cars led to snappier tempers, and it was just a nightmare waiting to happen. His shoulders sank, pressing his face against Chad's neck and sighing. "Make winter go away," he whined.

"Wish I could," he brought his hand up to Kyle's shoulder and kneaded the skin a bit. "You got a month or so before it starts coming down at least. And you can use the extra boost to give yourself a nice bonus."

Kyle snorted, "I don't do bonuses. Gift cards for everyone is as far as I go with that."

"Not really a gift card when you buy it with your money," he teased, pulling him closer. "We'll take the money from my wallet this year for you, though. How's that?"

Kyle grinned, nodding softly and moving back up, meeting his lips with a gentle sigh and sliding his hand up to cup his cheek. He hummed in thought, pulling back with a soft _smack_. "Wanna wear me out more?" he purred.

Chad snorted, "Kyle, you're barely functional."

"Make me even _less_ functional then," he murmured, trailing his lips down his cheek and neck, pressing pleading kisses along his clavicle.

He winced a bit, hand tightening around his shoulder. "Kyle, seriously. You're really tired and not really in a good place-"

"I'm _tired_ , not _drunk_ ," he sighed irritably. "If _you_ don't want to that's fine, but seriously, I'm good." Chad still looked a bit hesitant and he groaned. "C'monnn," he urged, hand sliding down and lightly grasping the front of Chad's underwear. "I've had a rough day," he whined, kisses turning harder and hand beginning to stroke, feeling Chad shudder and shift against his palm.

He bit his lip in the slightest, fingers tapping a bit in consideration. "I think you need sleep."

"Nuh uh," he shook his head, tilting to push his up a bit and find his ear, planting a hot kiss under the lobe. "What I _need_ is your _cock_ ," he purred, moaning theatrically with a firm grip around the hardening skin. " _Deep_ inside me."

Chad sputtered with laughter and Kyle's hand stopped, pulling back with a confused glaze over his eyes. "You _must_ be tired," he guffawed. "You _never_ say stuff like that."

Kyle shrugged, plastering on a seductive smile. "Don't you like it, though?"

He shook his head a bit in amusement, "Not really."

"…Oh," his shoulders sank. "Um. O-okay," he stammered, too goddamn tired to know how to save face at this point, feeling like he just walked straight into a concrete wall.

Chad watched his eyes flitter around in embarrassment in the light of the city beaming through the window and he sighed to himself. "If I have sex with you, will you _go to sleep_?" he pressed.

"Well not if it's such a _chore_ ," he huffed with a pout.

He shook his head, pressing their lips together and leading Kyle down onto his back, moving under the covers to hover over him and help him slip his boxers down before situating between his legs. "Not a chore," he promised against his mouth, grinding down and watching Kyle arch up against him at the contact. Kyle grinned a bit and slid his hands up to thread through brown hair, keeping him close as they rocked against one another.

Kyle hummed as lips trailed down his cheek to his neck, pecking sweetly as Chad's left hand fumbled trying to multitask in the nightstand drawer, trying to find cylindrical plastic and a half-full cardstock box. He fought down a yawn, aided with a well-angled collision of their hips, feeling hard, still-confined skin rigidly rubbing against his own. Fingertips mindlessly pet through Chad's dark hair, distracted by the feeling of locks slipping between his nails before a cold object nudged his arm. He glanced over to see Chad with lube in hand and he sighed through his nose, wondering if this was worth the exertion. An encouraging grind answered for him, holding his palm out and open under the cap and watching glistening liquid fall from the bottle onto his fingers.

He rubbed the solution around his digits, biting his tongue in concentration as he awkwardly maneuvered his hand under the covers and around his thigh, shoulder having to stretch before finding his target and slipping a sudden finger inside himself. He moaned quietly, head falling back and Chad peppering his neck as he struggled with his condom wrapper, dark eyes open and watching him cautiously. Kyle gritted his teeth, arm uncomfortably contorting to rest under his back as he wriggled in his second finger, letting out a sharp hiss as he stretched himself out.

"All right?" Chad asked, finally defeating his foil adversary and tossing it aside to push down his underwear and roll the condom over himself.

Kyle gave a curt nod, throat making strangled noises as he twisted his wrist, forearm starting to go numb under his weight. His other hand curled around Chad's shoulder, nails digging in enough for Chad to wince and clear his throat. Through his haze, Kyle recognized the discontent and lessened the grip, opting to curl in his fist as his third finger worked to join the others, his eyes shutting and body curving. He could hear the slick sound of Chad prepping himself, feeling that doting stare locked on his face, just waiting for him to change his mind as though it were so common an occurrence.

Only once. _Once_ had Kyle had to stop them mid-session, finding himself in the midst of an unforeseeable panic attack and needing Chad off and giving him space so he could ground himself again. Chad never seemed to forget it, however. He was always waiting for Kyle to have another freak-out, for him to shove him away and curl up on the bathroom floor just hyperventilating and sniveling until it passed. Kyle hated that studious look he'd gained from that night, having to take nearly a month after the fact to convince Chad that _he hadn't done anything wrong_. That sometimes it just _happened_ , he'd get them out of nowhere _all the time_ without any hint of a prompt. That he was _okay_ touching him and he wouldn't fucking break like the man seemed to think. The air of caution still lingered, however, and it was stifling.

Kyle grunted, tearing his fingers out of himself and wiping them on the side of the bed, taking the lube from the nightstand where Chad placed it and pouring a dollop back into his palm. He wrapped his hand around himself and pumped, watching with half-lidded eyes as Chad leaned down to kiss him before he groaned at skin beginning to breech through his muscles. He whimpered quietly as he tried to accommodate to the stretch, barely given the time to do so before Chad was rearing away and shoving back in.

" _Fuck!"_ he yelped under his breath, tugging on himself and a tingle radiating up his spine. Chad breathed into his neck, hips slowly sliding back and forth on a metronomic pulse. Kyle's head tilted back into his pillow, neck arching up and feeling soft kisses being planted against his jawline. He groaned, head spinning as lower end stinging gave a little way with each of Chad's predictable thrusts, shivering as he tilted down and met his lips. His hand put on a bit of extra pressure, trying to get himself back from flagging with the discomforting stinging of his ass. He moaned, lower half raising a bit to clench his knees around Chad's waist.

Chad grunted, head bowing down from kissing and burying into his neck. Never a touch of teeth, never more than the lightest of suckling to keep Kyle looking like actual management material during the daytime. Kyle gulped, still stroking himself between their abdomens, realizing as he looked past Chad at their ceiling that he was even more exhausted than he thought. He let himself be limply slid along the sheets, trying to snap himself awake, trying to focus on the erratic thumping of Chad's heart or the scalding heat he was sharing. He tried again to angle himself better, try to give Chad a direct hit against his prostate. He groaned under his breath, the best he could get no more than a smooth friction just gliding over the nerves.

It was at least enough to let him shudder, his cock responding to the stimulation and once more finding rigidity in his working hand. Kyle hummed, shoulders rolling and free hand reaching up to pet the back of Chad's neck. Hot breath found his ear, a kiss just a touch too wet gliding over the lobe. "All right?" Chad repeated in a strained whisper.

"Mhm," he nodded, giving him a reassuring, affectionate nudge against his head. He moaned softly, his exhaustion doing little to help with any degree of stamina. Tender lips found their way back to his own and he let out a contented breath, sinking further into his pillow and his knees clutching tighter around Chad's waist. He'd needed this, just needed his escape from the world of pasta and paperwork for just a few minutes. This was where he got to shed the cold of the autumn night, feel caring hands holding him and letting him just ride through the motions without having to make all the goddamn decisions himself for once. It was his getaway where the soaking dishes didn't matter and neither did the impending rent payment, it was where they were both silenced from making too snippy or judgmental a remark. Feelings weren't hurt here, temperaments weren't riled; it was nothing but them and their skin, down to the basics they craved. Chad the mawkish, almost meek fondness, Kyle the chance to pretend he wasn't holding the world on his shoulders

A telltale grunt broke through Chad's throat and Kyle sighed to himself, wanting the stretch, the heat to last just a tad longer. Apparently, _Chad's_ level of alertness wasn't doing him any favors either. His hand worked faster, trying to catch himself up to Chad's progress and unable to do so as his hips fell a bit, losing all sensation against his prostate and nearly pouting. Instead, he opted to moan as Chad let out a series of short, staccato breaths against his face, eyes scrunching as his rhythm changed for a few quick pumps before falling still.

Chad gulped, kissing the side of his face as he genially pulled out of him, Kyle whining to himself at the loss. He shivered, hand still working and eyes opening to the ceiling as Chad moved off to throw the filled condom into the wastebasket by his side of the bed. Kyle groaned, stuck on the spackled pattern of the drywall hovering above them. Teeth ground into his lip, thumb diverting in the slightest and sliding over his leaking head and hips arching.

The mattress dipped beside him, looking as Chad sidled on over against him, kissing him and letting his hand drift its way around Kyle's body beneath the covers. Kyle grunted, kicking the comforter and sheet off himself, unwilling to deal with that mess this late. Chad let his eyes wander the slim form alit in the city glow, palm making way to his thigh and rubbing the skin, nails occasionally trickling upwards to scrape against his hipbone. Kyle forced him back on his lips, just barely meeting his tongue and tremoring at another well-placed glide over his hip. Another hand crawled up and threaded through his hair, lightly rubbing his scalp and tipping his head back to deepen the kiss.

Kyle was panting and gulping, fingers tighter around his dick and lower half tensing. Their noses rubbed against one another's, mouths messily leaving trails around their targets. He focused on the sound of Chad's recovering breathing, the way his fingers so delicately trailed over him and fiddled with his hair. He honed in on how he squeezed his thigh and danced along his waist, patiently waiting for him as he always was. Kyle sighed into his mouth with a subtle moan sneaking through, head twisted awkwardly to keep their lip-locking intact, but it was worth it. His being there, his warmth, that smile he always carried for him as he waited for the door to open every night made a little crick seem like nothing at all.

Kyle whimpered, eyes scrunching and free hand yearning to clutch and scratch, holding himself back and digging his nails deep into his palm as a surge rushed through him, hips jerking and Chad's hand pulling away instantly to keep from the mess spilling out of him. His tongue pressed deeper into Kyle's mouth to muffle his sound, counting down the beats until he could slide back out and look down to see a glistening mess on Kyle's shirt and his hand fallen limply beside softening skin. Kyle's chest heaved with pants, lips smacking and a content smile spreading on his face.

Chad chuckled, patting his head a few times before taking his hand back. "Good?"

"Mhm," he nodded, creaking his eyes open to see the mess he was and sighing. "Ugh, I don't wanna," he whined.

"You gotta," he teased, flicking his arm. "Or you'll be itching and sticky in the morning and you'll get all angry about it."

Kyle huffed, moving to carefully slid himself out of his shirt, turning it inside out once in his hands. He winced, reaching down with the balled-up fabric and wiping himself down, feeling Chad keeping his eyes up on his concentrated face. "I don't get _angry_ ," he corrected, letting out a soft grunt as he cleaned the lube leaking out of him. "I just get a little annoyed. It'd be nice if my ass was self-cleaning. Or self-lubricating. Why the fuck do chicks get all the anatomical good stuff?"

"I don't think they see it that way, they have other issues," he snorted.

"I would _happily_ bleed out my dick for a week if I could save money on lube. Fuckin' need to just invest in Durex stock," he rolled his eyes. Chad smiled and shook his head, watching him toss his soiled shirt to the side of the room by their laundry basket and letting out a small sigh. He reached down and grabbed Kyle's boxers, lazily lobbing them over him. Kyle looked at him wryly, "What if I wanna sleep naked?"

He shrugged, "I mean, I won't stop you, but last time you did that you told me your balls could double as ice cubes."

"Snowballs are no laughing matter," he said dryly, smirking at another chuckle before opting to just give in and slide his boxers back around his legs and up his hips. He snagged the discarded comforter and pulled it back over himself, sighing happily and moving in closer to Chad's chest.

Chad kissed his head, taking a deep breath and subtly scrunching his nose at the rampant scent of basil and oregano lingering in his hair. "Feel better?'

Kyle nodded, lazily draping an arm over his waist and stroking his back, "I do. Thank you."

"My pleasure," he snorted, kissing him again and moving to settle them both down into the pillows.

They fell into a comfortable silence, fingers mindlessly tracing along one another's spines as the city continued to swim with life five stories down. The day was done, and all problems were finally put on hold until they meandered back up in the late morning hours. Chad would wake up, finish the dishes and the laundry, get ready for work, and rouse Kyle from sleep before he left with a kiss and a promise to see him that night. It was the one thing Kyle could depend on, their routine never wavering aside from his own flubs causing a mess between them. But even then, they could always find their way back to where they'd started, with an ear always there and something to hold onto when city life just got to be a little too much.

Before long, Kyle's stunted afterglow faded off from him entirely, head drooping limply as he rapidly neared sleep in a dazed state. He could vaguely feel Chad pulling back away from him, carefully moving as to not disturb him, barely registering his arm being covered by Chad's own. But, as fingers oh-so-carefully found their way between his own as they laid between them atop the pillows, he couldn't help his lips curling into a small, satisfied smile.


	10. Self-Sanitation

Kenny was starting to remember why he spent so much of high school sneaking out back with Craig to hide under the bleachers and smoke. Learning was so fucking _tedious_.

He sighed, propping his chin into his palm as he listlessly scrolled to the next section waiting for him, eyes drooping as he read over the bolded fuchsia header: **Chapter 5 – Time and Temperature**. He groaned, fingers raking up through disheveled hair straining at the roots from his repeated tugging. Why did he have to learn this; he didn't fucking _understand_. He'd already flown through the sanitation section, why did he need to learn about the complicated world of cross-contamination and allergen precautions when _he wasn't going to touch the food_? Far as he knew, his job would entail only of scrubbing shit down, all he really needed to know was where they kept their towels and, per the _oh-so-helpful_ world of ServSafe, never put them in his pockets ever.

He pursed his lips. Okay, so there was more to it. A _lot_ more that he'd never considered. Like how meats _had_ to be kept stored under produce, and how he needed to spend at the minimum twenty seconds washing his hands. For such a fast-paced environment, he couldn't imagine spending all that time just dawdling by the sinks. But, then again, just going through what he'd learned, it wasn't exactly _shocking_. The world of food safety equated to a germaphobe's wet dream, nothing but the constant screeching of bacteria and how to get rid of it. It sounded exhausting. Switching tools and cutting boards consistently, nonstop cleaning the prep stations, doing everything short of throwing your hazmat-covered body over the food to protect it from the ticking time bombs that were air particles.

No wonder Kyle seemed so stressed without someone dedicated to taking care of his countertops.

He sighed again, shaking his head at an illustrated thermometer giving him a goddamn thumbs up. _'Check your thermometer for accuracy daily!'_ it told him through an outlined speech bubble. "How the fuck do you do that if it's broken," he muttered, shrugging to himself. Not really his problem, he assumed. But Kyle seemed fairly adamant that every person who stepped through his kitchen's threshold had the bare minimum certification.

His logic had been sound enough, Kenny supposed. _"Well, you handled that caprino, didn't you? Food handling. Our job isn't_ just _making food. It's keeping the customers from being sick as well. One case of food poisoning could ruin us. And your job will be being the expert on keeping everything sanitized and helping me keep up with making sure the food is properly stored,"_ Kyle had explained as he dug around for paperwork while Kenny looked around his office a bit. As shining as his kitchen was, Kenny was a bit surprised at how low-key and musty his personal space appeared and how there were papers scattered everywhere. Guess that happened when you're running from task to task and one definitely took priority over the other. He'd landed on two framed diplomas hanging beside his bookshelf and couldn't help the ebbing swirl of jealousy and admiration. Two bold proclamations stood out proudly against the low lighting of his overhead lamp with the one burnt-out bulb: ' _Culinary Management'_ and ' _Culinary Arts'_ , each with their own signatures and university logo slapped along the bottom.

" _Where'd you go to school?"_ Kenny had asked, unable to make out the words hovering above Kyle's name.

" _Kendall,"_ he'd shrugged.

He'd nodded, impressed. He'd heard bits and pieces about the school around Joliet, usually from an underpaid line cook in one of their rundown diners after fucking up a meal with the sarcastic sneer of _"Well not_ all _of us could afford t' go t' Kendall."_ A part of him had wondered if Kyle wandered in from an Arts Institute, imagining how Craig with his nonstop assault on their flimsy "educational" plan and shitty ethics would have reacted to him being employed by such a 'wannabe arts major who didn't take time to research his school'. He doubted one of their graduates could actually hold their own in a restaurant, however. Kenny had smirked, a sliver of hope passing through him that Kyle wasn't _quite_ as high-and-mighty over his degree as Craig was about one he hadn't even gotten yet. He didn't know the culture of culinary school, but he could only pray it wasn't nothing but dramatic ingredient readings and scoffing at anyone who incorrectly prepared a frittata or whatever the fuck they did. Letting his sight flicker over towards his bookshelf, he didn't know why he was surprised to find it packed full of recipe books and FDA guideline binders. Aside from the second shelf, harboring a wooden spoon and two framed papers propped up beside it.

He'd leaned forward and squinted, trying to make out what they proclaimed. Kyle had looked up from getting his uniform order sheet, following his stare and smirking a bit, _"What are you looking at?"_

" _By the spoon. I'm learning I need glasses,"_ he'd pouted.

Kyle had snorted, shaking his head. _"The one on the left is an… 'honorary' degree,"_ he'd air-quoted. _"Got it from my instructor in Italy as proof I studied under him. One on the right is my CEC certification."_

" _Hang on, hang on, I can figure this out,"_ he'd held up his hand, looking up in thought and tonguing over his lips. _"Cooking… everything… craftily."_

Kyle had stared at him before breaking into laughter, moving his paperwork to set in front of him and handing him a pen. _"So so close,"_ he'd smirked. _"Certified Executive Chef."_

"… _Well, was my description inaccurate?"_

" _A bit. That would be more suited for a Master Chef,"_ he'd said quietly, eyes glimmering with something Kenny couldn't quite read before he'd shaken himself out of it, launching straight into background check and taxing information while Kenny struggled to follow along, just signing where he was told.

Kenny sighed, barely glancing up as the front door opened and shut, just shifting back on the couch with a stifled yawn, "Hey," he greeted.

"Hi," Craig cocked his brow, carefully setting his camera bag on the coffee table before throwing his bookbag onto the ground like a rock. "The fuck are you doing?" he asked, not used to seeing Kenny in the living room doing anything but playing video games or riding a high.

"ServSafe," he shrugged. "Have to take a two-hour course and then I get a test. Woot."

"Oh. Two hours. How awful," he scoffed, making his way towards their kitchen to start a kettle of water. "I just spent two _and a half_ hours being yelled at about what happens when your boom is in frame."

Kenny snorted, "I'm guessing all that happens is your boom is in frame."

He shrugged lazily, "Pretty fucking much. Unprofessional looking as shit, but I don't think we needed a lecture dedicated to it." He flicked on their range underneath his kettle, turning and walking back towards the living room, scratching at his head. "The hell do you need to know about serving food? I thought you were just the maid bitch."

"Boss man wants me certified, Dude. No clue," he shrugged.

"Sounds like a perfectionistic jackass," Craig scoffed, starting to light up a cigarette as Kenny slowly turned towards him with a wry expression. He frowned, cigarette dangling from his teeth. "What?"

"You're one to talk, _Cimino._ "

He shrugged, "The fact that you think that's an insult speaks volumes."

"My foot up your ass is gonna be what speaks volumes here in a minute," he said dryly.

Craig rolled his eyes, leaning over the back of the couch and looking at Kenny's lesson, giving a scoff. "With film, you _have_ to be a perfectionist. _Everything_ is on display."

"Oh, silly me. And here I thought that people got served food through a fucking tent and just eat away blindly," he rolled his eyes back. "And besides, he told me that if I get this done, I could possibly move up if I'm willing to get my liquor license. So, it's not a _complete_ waste of my time."

He twisted his lips, moving to sit beside him on the sofa and ash off into their tray. "A bartender? You're not exactly Mr. Sociable."

Kenny shrugged, "I can be if I absolutely have to. And if I was relyin' on tips, then I'd goddamn have to. He said that's for a bit down the line, but I should keep it in mind as a possibility. Even said he pays for it and I only have t' pay 'im back if I don't stay with his restaurant for six months afterwards."

He smirked a bit, taking a long drag. "He's got you on an employment hook, then."

"Not necessarily," he scoffed. "I don't really know 'im yet. Seems like the type to not bullshit about that kinda stuff though. Kinda gives off the vibe of wanting to keep his place as drama-free as he can, ya know?"

He shrugged dismissively, staring at the end of his cigarette. "Happens when you own your own place, I'd wager."

"Exactly," he gave a curt nod. "He-" he paused at a ding from his computer, looking down a pop-up email notification.

' _New Message!_  
_From: Kyle Broflovski_  
_Sub: Starting date'_

He let out a long breath, clicking the vibrantly white box and watching his email slowly trying to come to life. "Yo, is Broflovski an Italian name?" he asked offhandedly.

Craig raised his brow, "Does that _really_ sound Italian to you? Do you think your last name is fucking Arabic, too?" Kenny gave him a pout and he rolled his eyes. "Sounds Polish to me. Maybe. Do I look like I study fuckin' onomastics?" Kenny's eyes glazed over in confusion, Craig sighing out a stream of smoke. "Name origins."

"That's a _thing_?" he looked at him skeptically. "Who the fuck wakes up and decides 'Welp time to go figure out why Albert is named that'?'

"Who wakes up and decides they're going to be a half-wit busboy?" he scoffed, jerking back as Kenny punched his arm.

Kenny grumbled under his breath as he turned back to his computer. Least he was _makin'_ money. Even if Craig graduated, chances were high he wasn't going anywhere and would probably be stuck in menial jobs just like himself. That'd show 'im. And he'd be hundreds of thousands in the hole while Kenny sailed on by debt free. _'Take that, Tucker.'_

He glanced down as his message finally appeared, rubbing his eye a bit and realizing he'd been staring at text for way too fucking long.

_**Kyle Broflovski**_  
_**Sub: Starting date**_  
_'Hi, Ken. Just need to know when a good start date is for you since you said there'd possibly be some conflict with your current job. Your uniform should be coming in within the next three days, I'll let you know and you can pick it up any time before you start. Or you can send someone else to do so since I know it's quite a trip for you. Thank you! -Kyle'_

Kenny gnawed on his lip, tapping his finger against the side of his computer and scraping against the USB port. He barely noticed as Craig got up to address his whistling kettle, opening a reply window and hesitating as his fingers touched his keys. He had two options here. He could say _'as soon as I can'_ and dance his way out of the gas station with a smug smirk on his face, or he could do this the _professional_ way. "Craig, from what I've told you about this dude, do you think he'd prefer professionalism? Or me bendin' over backwards to prioritize his place?"

Craig looked up in thought, considering the question as he dug through a collection of teabags Tweek had sent him for last Christmas. "Tough call. Sounds like he'd want both, especially if he's shorthanded enough to actually hire _you_ ," he shrugged, pulling out a ginger peach packet and beginning to tear it open. "I'd go with professionalism, though. So he knows down the line what to expect from you."

He nodded a bit. Made perfect sense. He let his fingers fly, taking a long breath through his nose and hoping to god he would come off as more than a fumbling moron.

_**Kenny McCormick**_  
_**Re: Starting date**_  
_'Hi, Kyle. I was kind of hoping to give my current job my full two weeks if that's all right. I put in for it yesterday and don't want to leave them high and dry. If that'd be a problem though, I'm sure I could work something out with them. Whatever works best, and I'm assuming I can't start until my uniform gets here so I'd have a few days to talk them down if need-be. Whichever you prefer. Thanks!' -Kenny_

He hit send and instantly regretted it, staring at his name with a twitching eye. Fuck. Should he have 'aged up' with Ken? Gone full-blown Kenneth? He didn't _know_ this just felt like _so_ much pressure for a bussing job.

"Stop having a goddamn panic attack over there," Craig's voice popped back up flatly. "It's just a bussing job."

"How the fuck do you do that?" he looked back, head following as Craig walked around the couch with a steaming mug and settling down on the opposite end.

He shrugged, fiddling with his bag string and watching the leaves seeping into the water in amber clouds. "You're easy to read. Just calm down. He just wanted a starting date, it wasn't a second interview."

"Okay, but what if it secretly _was_ and he sees 'Kenny' and he's like 'oh well look at this guy and his immature name shouldn't he have dropped that ending 'ny' shit by now-'"

"Oh my _god_ , McCormick, shut _up_ ," he groaned, leaning his head back and battling an impending tension headache. "It's _just_ your name. You go by both. He'll learn that eventually anyway. You got the fucking job, will you just _relax_?" he paused, tilting his head back down and cocking his brow. "By the way, been meaning to ask you about something regarding this whole thing," he waved aimlessly. Kenny blinked, nodding him on. "I thought you hated Chicago. Why the hell do you want to go there like, five days a week now?"

"Because thirteen-fifty an _hour_ , Craig," he drawled. "That kind of money would be good so we're not livin' paycheck to paycheck. I'm sick of having to decide if electric or heating is more important to pay first, ya know?"

Craig nodded, sipping at his tea and scrunching his nose, the flavor not nearly as infused as he preferred. "Well why there? You don't even _like_ Italian food."

Kenny rolled his eyes, "I've never been able to _afford_ Italian food unless you count goddamn _Pizza Hut_."

"I would suggest _not_ making that comparison if what you've told me about this guy holds true," he cocked his brow. "Seems like the type to bash your head in with… what the fuck are those stupid boats?" he murmured, looking off to the side and narrowing his eyes. "Google it."

"Google _what_?"

"Just type in 'Italian boat'. Before it drives me fucking crazy."

Kenny sighed irritably, doing as told and popping up a new tab beside his waiting ServSafe. He shook his head. Usually he'd taunt Craig until he got his lazy ass up and got his own laptop or even slightly shifted to get his damn phone out. But he was too stressed, just wanted to get this agonizing hiring process over and done with so he didn't have to worry about how he was going to juggle things for the next two weeks. He clicked his tongue, watching results loading over his page. "Uh, _gondola_?"

"That!" he nodded before frowning again. "He'd knock you clean with one if you compared 'em."

"How would _you_ know?" he scoffed. "You ain't met him."

He shrugged, "You said he pronounced things like a showy douche."

Kenny cringed, "I didn't say douche. Or showy. Just kind of… _really_ heavy on the inflection or whatever the fuck you'd call it. I'm sure he's saying it the _right_ way I just hate when it's thrown into the middle of nothin' else in that language, ya feel me? Didn't bother me when he went into a lil rant with _everything_ being Italian, but just one or two words is so…" he trailed off, looking up for the word and sighing.

Craig rolled his eyes, "Considering how you damn near broke my fucking nose for just saying _'la mise en scène'_ correctly _,_ I fucking know how you feel already."

"Okay, well he says stuff _related_ to his job," he said.

"How is what I said not related to my studies?"

Kenny frowned, "You said it when we were juniors, you douchewaffle. You hadn't even _applied_ to schools yet and acted like you needed to be walking around wearing a beret and shouting through a megaphone. This dude already did his time in _academia_ or whatever the fuck your pretentious word for it is."

"…That's not for fine arts, you moron. That's _Token's_ arena. The rest of us are just stuck with 'school' according to most people," he rolled his eyes. "Because we're just here 'wasting our time' learning something we give a damn about as opposed to slaving away behind a desk writing papers that maybe eight people will read."

"Well whatever fine. Doesn't matter who said it, but I guess then it's Token who sounds like a prick," he retorted in a huff.

Craig eyed him warily, swirling the tea in his mug as Kenny sank. He was being _awfully_ snappy for someone that he grew up with being so laid-back. "You're totally jealous of this guy."

"What?" he shot his head over to him.

He shrugged, taking a long sip of his drink and dropping his cup from his lips with a dramatic sigh. "You're not okay that he's our age and has his life going already while you're just waiting to be his busboy. You _want_ him to be a pretentious asshole because you haven't found anything else wrong with him."

Kenny blinked, "Why would I want to _work_ for someone like that? That's some bullshit-"

"Because then you have an _excuse_ to fall back on if you messed up with your choice. You _always_ do that," he scoffed, moving to light up another cigarette and set his tea aside. "In the clothing store here you hated it because 'only rich fucktards who can't tie their own shoes' shopped there. You hate the gas station because 'all it is is people's relationship drama and you having to listen to it'. You're looking for a reason to back out if another opportunity comes along so you don't feel guilty."

Ken stared at him in silence, stomach and chest wrenching. God, was he _right_? Kenny knew he had grown a horrid habit of finding something wrong in his first day on a job or during the interview process, and he _never_ let it go. He'd let it stew, just waiting to use as a potential weapon in case things went out of hand, a _justification_ for his misery and string of complaints. A tone from his computer brought his attention back from his fuzzy haze, glancing down and opening his bouncing email icon.

 _ **Kyle Broflovski**_  
_**Re: re: Starting date**_  
_'No, that's not a problem at all, don't push if you're not sure it'd be taken well. Last thing you need is to leave them with a chance of a bad reference in the future. Would you be willing to come in on your days off from there, though? If not that's absolutely fine, I just need to get the schedule ironed out for next week.'_

Kenny blinked slowly, turning his laptop and cursing at the cord trying to get caught in his sleeve as he held it towards Craig. "Okay, this. What do you make of _this_?"

Craig leaned forward, taking a long drag as he read over Kyle's words before leaning back with a shrug. "Looks like he's willing to compromise. What, you afraid he's lyin' to lower your defenses or something?"

Kenny took his computer back with a pout. "No. It's just… I don't know…"

"You've never had a fucking say in this kind of stuff?" Craig guessed.

Kenny nodded slowly, fingertips gliding over his keyboard. Job transitions were _always_ a bitch. He'd be dealing with two companies fighting over his time and energy, the old wracked with bitterness at his departure and the new unable to comprehend how he couldn't spend every waking moment learning their systems. As high as turnover rates were claimed to be, he couldn't quite wrap his head around why such a concept was baffling to both organizations every time without fail. Ken wasn't stupid, wary enough to know that this promise of conciliation could be a one-time thing before he found himself getting guilted for needing a sick day or berated on a day where he was tired and fell the slightest bit behind in his work. Kyle could be a ticking time bomb, and he'd already seen him explode once. Being on the _other_ side of his viewpoint was the _last_ thing he wanted to deal with.

He grimaced. He'd complained about Kyle's _pronunciation_ but not his _temper_. That wouldn't sound so ridiculous to be cautious of, anyone would understand that hesitation. But then again, a part of him was relieved, finally seeing some sort of _life_ in the Midwest he didn't know he'd missed so much. He missed how temperaments would hit that edge and everyone started screaming at each other while no one remembered how it got started in the first place. He missed going out to the woods outside of school to fight for his reputation or watch someone else getting pummeled. He missed the side of this place that he never got to see. Maybe it was different here in youth, who knew. But in South Park, they stayed the same until they died: Forever mouthy and rambunctious and itchin' to take out frustrations. Seemed like something Kyle could relate to, and something that at least convinced Kenny that he wasn't doing business with nothing short of a heartland robot.

He sighed, scratching at his hair before returning his fingers to his keyboard. He knew his schedule for next week. Working every single day would be a bitch but it'd really boost up his take-home…

_**Kenny McCormick**_  
_**Re: re: re: Starting date**_  
_'That wouldn't be an issue. I have next Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday off if those would work for you. If you'd want me on different days I know it wouldn't cause a problem for me to just switch shifts with someone, though.'_

He sent it off, shaking his head. This was already just so exhausting. Maybe this was a mistake, he was just too blown away by the concept of extra cash and the whirlwind of his 'challenge' and he didn't think this through properly.

Craig watched him carefully, ashing off into the tray on the coffee table and clicking his tongue a few times. "So. Can I offer some advice so you stop looking like someone kicked your puppy in the face?" Kenny looked over at him, brow slowly rising along his forehead. Advice was something Craig almost _never_ gave out without prompt. Craig twisted his lips at the disbelieving expression. "Don't get used to it," he said curtly. "Give it a chance, though. Deal with the whole accent thing or whatever as a _quirk_ , not a half-assed reason to have some superiority complex."

Kenny winced, "It's not a superiority complex."

"Yes. It is," he replied with a huff. "You don't like that he's successful and you're just a busboy so you're grasping at straws. Damn, work for the guy for a while before you try to say you're better than him. Not many people nowadays get a job that pays that decently as easily as you did," he reminded him. "He could have _easily_ said 'thanks for what you did but I'll be looking elsewhere'."

Kenny sighed, eyes dropping to the floor. Okay. He wasn't exactly _wrong_. He supposed that Kyle gave _him_ a hell of a risky chance with everything apparently going on, it was only fair to return the favor. "I just don't want to take hour long trips to be miserable," he grumbled. "It's one thing when it's five minutes away, ya know?"

"Maybe you'll like it," Craig shrugged, snagging his mug and taking another sip. "Even if the job sucks, maybe the people are decent. Like, my peers fucking suck ass but I like my classes, regardless of the stupid shit they harp on," he rolled his eyes. "Maybe you'll have the same kind of balance and it won't be so bad."

Ken gave him a lighthearted smirk, "Since when did you become such an optimist?"

"Since I became sick of your goddamn bitching over a job you haven't even started yet," he scoffed. "With the way you've been goin' at it, you don't exactly have a bright-side edge over me, McCormick. You're being cynical. You've been that way since we goddamn _got_ here. Maybe you need to remember how you were back home for once and apply it here."

He shifted in his seat, looking back towards his computer and sighing through his nose. Maybe. Maybe he was right. He was fairly lax back home with how life treated him. Handled shitty jobs and a shitty home life with a goddamn smile on his face and nothing more than snide, cheeky remarks to get him through the day. Here, it just felt different. Isolating. Like who he and Craig were was somewhat of a pox on this society. Hard to be positive feeling like that. And he didn't have a _goal_ anymore. He wasn't working to try to get himself through school. He wasn't working to send money to Karen anymore since she was financially stable on her own. The world just kept on spinning and he was halted in the same menial spot with no end objective but bill payments and saving up for the monthly case of beer.

Craig hadn't been kidding when he said moving here had changed him. And Kenny was finally starting to realize it with the rare _meaningful_ talk with his roommate.

He didn't like this version of himself. He didn't like looking at everything like it was out to get him, it reminded him far too much of his _father_. He didn't want to look in the mirror one day and see himself with an unkempt beard, greasy hair, and the stench of whiskey and regret following him wherever he went. The notion was terrifying. Humiliating. Kenny rubbed his eye a bit, open pupil lingering on the illuminated screen.

Maybe it was time to change that. Find himself a _new_ goal so it didn't seem so pointless and monotonous. There had to be something out there for him to work towards, school, a car, _something_. He blinked, dropping his hand at a new message flashing before him.

_**Kyle Broflovski**_  
_**Re: re: re: re: Starting date**_  
_'That would be absolutely perfect. Wednesday is a great day for you to start figuring everything out and not get overwhelmed. So you're aware ahead of time and can figure out the train schedule, you'll need to be in front of the restaurant by 1:30 on each shift. I'll meet you when I get there so I can unlock the door, just so you don't get confused when you can't get inside since I tend to forget to tell people that part. I'll put a reminder note with your uniform, and you or whoever picks it up can just tell the host, they should have it with them so you can get in and out with no fuss. We'll see you Wednesday. Thanks again and welcome to the family, Kenny!'_

Ken snorted a bit. At least his name didn't seem to deter Kyle in the slightest, the man apparently taking his sign-off as his preferred name. He couldn't say he hated that kind of considerate thinking. "He calls them all a family."

"Gay," Craig rolled his eyes. "I was wrong. Judge this person all you want, he deserves it for that kind of tripe."

Kenny couldn't help but laugh, running his fingers through his hair and leaning his head back. Given, considering how he had heard them bouncing off one another's quips, how everyone had looked at Kyle after his breaking point like a guilted child even when in complete innocence, maybe the term wasn't _so_ farfetched. Kenny had worked for plenty of other places using the same moniker for their team that were missing any kind of rapport. More often than not, managerial lectures were met with nothing more than rolling eyes and subtly flipping them off. In that kitchen, though… Maybe he'd just seen an off day. Maybe they were just the same as every other place of employment but they were too busy to remember their routine. But he couldn't be sure, that air of tension, of worry had been more stifling than the heat blasting from the brick oven. It seemed genuine, _natural._ It was a communal environment, and he could only hope initiation into such a unique gathering wouldn't be the death of him.

He sighed to himself, switching back over to his ServSafe and settling back against the couch as he read along. Maybe this course was boring. And maybe he was walking into a mess that would bite him in the ass down the road. And maybe he didn't know what to make that new goal of his, at least not financially. But, he did have one for his mentality's sake latching onto him and refusing to be shaken.

Regardless of where he was, or who he was surrounded by, it was time to be Kenny again. It was time to get out of Craig's typically-pessimistic influence and back into his old skin, to be something more than just a guy working the service industry and going home to hate his life. _Something_ encouraged him to take Kyle's offer. _Something_ told him that this was an opportunity of some sort, beyond monetary value; that'd rarely mattered to him, after all. But something was calling him back in, the chance for something outside of mere job-hopping. This was a time for him to become acclimated with the city he'd been avoiding, a chance to prove to himself that he wasn't going to be nothing but small-town white trash afraid of 'the big bad world' for the rest of his life.

And it started now.


	11. Accept No Substitutes (Okay, Maybe Some)

One would _think_ that 100% cotton would be comfortable, but apparently not when you hadn't figured out the right amount of fabric softener to wear it down. Kenny grumbled under his breath, anxious and fidgeting with his starched sleeves as he walked the sidewalk, shaking his head. He'd never had to wear a _dress shirt_ to work before, had only worn one three times in his life: His graduation, Karen's graduation, and Kevin's first wedding. Having to wear one daily seemed like a stifling _nightmare_ , like his posture was going to snap into rigidity, he was going to randomly develop a posh accent and care about how much his swanky new black work shoes shined.

Maybe this was a little _too_ far from his upbringing.

He gritted his teeth, walking alongside a crowd across Harrison Street while he struggled to button his right cuff. He folded his lips and bit, wondering if he should just skip this step and leave them both unbuttoned. He'd have to roll them up for dishes anyway, right? Or did Kyle expect him to look like the fanciest dish bitch this side of the Mississippi at all times? Kenny groaned, head leaning back as he stepped up onto the curb, continuing down his way. He should've asked this when he got hired. Or told Craig to ask when he picked up his uniform. Given, he was much more comfortable telling Craig to not say anything more than he was there for the uniform and a thank you. Last thing he needed was Craig trying to get Kyle's attention and snag his restaurant as a goddamn filming location. Craig had come home that night telling Kenny it looked just like the kind of place suited for him to work, that it screamed an essence of 'I take it up the ass' that few other locations could capture so elegantly.

Kenny chose to take that one as a compliment for his employment achievement. He needed to know when to pick his battles with Craig and that one was just not worth his frustrations.

Ken jerked as he collided arms with another walker in his distraction, whirling his head around. "Sorry!" he called out, teeth baring in the slightest as the man didn't so much as stagger his walk.

"Good luck gettin' a response out here," a playful voice cooed. He shot his head back around, nearly stumbling over himself at Bebe leaning against the wall of the restaurant with a smirk. "Almost missed it, didn't ya?"

"Uh… no?" he tried, getting a small laugh out of her. He pouted, waiting for a distracted teenager to pass in front of him before making way to beside of her, taking a long, agitated breath and staring shadily at the thrall of people continuing to go about their days. "This place is _crazy_ ," he drawled.

She shrugged a bit, carefully rubbing under her eye to avoid smearing a thick painting of liner, "Not really. Some parts, yes. Not this one. 'Sides, it doesn't take long to get into the swing of things. Given it might for you since I hear-tell you're a small-town kinda guy?" she teased.

He looked down at her curled head and lips to match, returning the expression. "What can I say? Cities can't handle me."

"Oh _really_?"

"No, because they eat me alive and I give 'em indigestion," he scoffed, getting another chuckle out of her. "I take it you're a city-slicker, then?"

Bebe nodded, moving to begin sticking her thick hair up into a loose bun. "Mhm. Born and raised right here in Chi-town. What about you? You from Joliet?"

He shook his head, "Nah. Lived there 'bout three years. I'm from Colorado."

She paused, looking at him with a small smirk, "Wow. You're _really_ a fish outta water here, huh? How do you handle not being able to smoke weed wherever you want?"

"By having a landlord that doesn't care so long as I hook him up with my dealer," he shrugged, face dropping at once wondering if he'd said the wrong thing already.

Bebe caught the fear in his eyes and laughed, "Kyle doesn't drug test unless you come in high," she promised, reading the question flooding his mind. "I've smoked _with him_. If you're doing your job and not endangering anyone in his building, he couldn't care less."

Kenny nodded, "Good to know." Last thing in the world he _needed_ to know right now, but at least that was one perpetual fear that he could keep well off his mind. He sighed, running his fingers through his hair and dropping his eyes to the ground, feeling closed in by the sound of footsteps clacking against the sidewalk as person after person passed them by.

Bebe finished putting up her hair, unwinding some curls along the front of her forehead to drop down and frame her face, watching Kenny curiously. "Nervous, Hon?"

He looked back over at her, head slightly tucked towards his chin, and she couldn't help but smile at a pure puppy-dog timidity overtaking his face. "A little," he admitted.

She patted his arm a tad, "Don't be. Unless you set people on fire, you'll do just fine."

"Honestly it's not the customers I'm nervous about…?" he winced and she let out a soft _'ah_ ' before chuckling.

"He's not usually as scary as you saw him," she assured him. "That was pretty rare for him, at least here. Just remember, you're working for someone who crafted this place by himself. If something messes up, he thinks he has no one to blame but himself, even if it was something he wasn't involved with like another chef screwing up an order," she said. "It gets to him sometimes, but he never does more than snap at any of us. Just stay light on your feet, don't upset the customers, and do what Kyle needs you to do and you'll be _golden_ ," she promised. "Honestly, consider yourself lucky."

Kenny blinked, looking around a bit before falling back onto her and moving to unbutton his done-up cuff. "Because I got the job so easily?"

"Well, that, yes. He's usually pretty strict about who he hires. But I more meant feel lucky that you're working for someone in the service industry who isn't going to fuck you over," she shrugged, brushing stray particles off her pea coat. She frowned, struggling with a piece of lint caught on her sleeve hem. "He's a perfectionist, but he's not going to beat you over the head for making a mistake. And he's really great about the fair hours thing. Though you might get a little overtime in the next few weeks until he finds another busser."

Kenny nodded, "Well, I still got a week left at my old place, after that, though I'm more than happy for some extra cash."

Bebe flashed him a smile, "Good attitude to have. Keep that up and you're lookin' at a pretty decent raise if you stick around."

Kenny scoffed, "What? Six cents? That's the exact same line my boss at the station pulled on me."

She shook her head, "I think the lowest increase he gave last year was about six percent. Pretty damn decent compared to other jobs I've had in this town."

Kenny blinked slowly, turning out and looking at the traffic passing them by and heaving a deep breath. Okay, so far it all was sounding pretty damn good. Seemed to him like he just needed to learn how to play his cards correctly with Kyle and he'd be smooth sailin' right on through this place. Or at least he could hope.

Bebe scoffed, finally defeating her fuzzy foe and flicking it off into the wind, watching it sail down the sidewalk and catching a familiar figure approaching. She grinned, "You're laaaaate!" Kenny turned, watching as Kyle came up to them with a large cup of coffee and a heavy paper bag dangling from aching fingertips having to lug it through town.

He shrugged with a yawn sneaking through him, ripping the keys out of his pocket and fumbling about as he came up beside them. "Sorry, line was huge at _Agua Dulce_ ," he shook his latte a bit. "Needed it, though."

"Ohh, late night? Bein' kept all _busy_?" Bebe teased, nudging him with her elbow.

He smirked at her a bit as he fought the lock, "Stop scaring the new guy. And none of your business. Besides, _all_ my damn nights are late."

Bebe turned up at Kenny and shrugged, "That's code for 'yes, Bebe, my gorgeous friend, I totally got laid last night.'"

He rolled his eyes, "Oh fuck off, Stevens," he nudged her back before managing to shove the door open. Kenny smiled, a bit more relaxed with their casual demeanor and following them inside. Kyle nodded at him as he flipped on the lights, that comforting orange glow slamming back into place and wrapping the three of them in subtle shadows. "Lock it back up"

"Got it," he nodded, doing as told and shifting a bit in his place, unsure exactly of what he was supposed to jump into doing.

Kyle put his cup and bag down on a table and yawned, peeling off his jacket, "Bebe, can you check fifteen? I asked Jason to fix it last night but… Jason."

She snorted and whirled on her heel, the boys watching her make way to a table in the middle of the dining floor and shaking it a bit with noticeable give. She rolled her eyes, "That'd be a no on that, Kyle."

"Faaaaantastic," he scoffed, tossing his coat down and making way to the bar, raking his hair back. "Ask him to do _one extra thing_ ," he grumbled, leaning down behind the counter and sifting through the supplies under the sink. Bebe turned and smiled, laughing softly at Kenny's blank expression before waving him over. Kenny gulped, hoping he wasn't supposed to be doing something right now as he made way towards her. Kyle popped back up, nearly elbowing a displayed bottle of wine on the way and sighing irritably. "Gonna be one of those days, I think," he said, grunting as he grasped the bar's toolbox and hefted it up, awkwardly making his way towards the table. " _God_ why aren't there _smaller_ tools?" he griped.

Bebe grinned, "But look at you carrying that. You're so strong," she cooed.

He shot her a look, "Don't _patronize_ me." She shrugged innocently as he plopped the box down onto an adjacent table and snapped it open, eyes scanning and narrowing. "Um," he blinked, looking between the mess of metals and plastics, bending down a bit to stare at the hex bolts holding the underside of the surface. "I uh… wrench?" he asked, looking at her for confirmation.

"How would _I_ know?" Bebe scoffed, mindlessly poking at a hammer head jutting through the jumble. "That's what my _landlord_ is for."

Kenny looked between their bewilderment and couldn't help but laugh quietly. "Want me to look?" he offered.

Kyle looked at him and shrugged, "Hey, if you know tools, please. Be my guest," he gestured to the table.

He nodded, tossing his apron next to the toolbox and squatting down, swiveling to put himself under the table and stare up at what he had to work with. "Ah. Got a ratchet up there?" he asked.

Kyle blinked, considering the kit. "Uh… and that would be…?"

"It's like a spoon with a little knob on the flat end," he elaborated. "Should have some different sized sockets that go with it in there, too if you have one."

He furrowed his brow, sifting through the box and clicking his teeth, snagging out what _seemed_ to fit his descriptions. "These?" he winced as he displayed them.

Kenny nodded, "Yep," he took them and opened the socket box, testing through varying sizes to fit the table's bolts.

Bebe chuckled, flicking Kyle's arm. "Now come on, don't let the newbie show up your masculinity already," she taunted.

Kyle pouted, "Dude, I never learned this stuff. My dad is a fucking _lawyer_. We just took whatever needed fixed to shops. Kind of got distracted once I came here and didn't need to fix anything for my apartments, so excuse me for not being a regular Tim Allen."

Ken snorted, "Aw, don't feel too bad, Man," he reassured him. "Only reason I'm good with this stuff is I worked at a mechanic's back home."

Kyle looked down at him and tilted his head. "No offense, but why didn't you just hit up working for another shop then? Lot more money than a gas station."

"Yeah, but in Joliet, 'bout all the fuckin' shops are _family_ businesses," he scoffed, attaching his matching socket to his wrench and starting to rapidly torque the six bolts above him. "You gotta know someone since they don't trust outsiders, 'specially outta staters. And no one would quit at the Midas. So you just take whatcha can get in that town."

He nodded slowly, "Makes sense." He watched Kenny's hand sneak around the edge of the table and wiggle it a bit.

"Look good?" he asked.

"That's great, Kenny. Thanks," he grinned, stepping back out of the way as Ken rolled back out and shook his head as he hopped back to his feet. "Last thing we need is a table collapsing onto someone's lap."

He nodded, packing the socket back up, "Might ruin their appetites a bit."

He smirked, "A little."

They glanced over at Bebe moving back towards the table holding Kyle's things and rummaging through his bag, humming to herself. "Specials in here?" she called, snagging his coffee and taking a sip.

"Yeah, should be in a bag under the basil," he answered, giving her a small laugh. "And please, help yourself to my latte."

"Will do," she smiled cheekily, taking a longer gulp before going back to scavenging while Kyle snapped the toolbox back shut and headed back to return it to the bar. Kenny snatched his apron and tossed it over his shoulder, shifting a bit as Bebe finally found her target and tore out a set of small papers tightly secured in their plastic prison. "Doesn't seem too fancy today," she commented.

Kyle shrugged as he walked back up by Kenny and jerked his thumb towards him. "Well we have him to train, Kevin has today off for a dentist thing, and I'm fucking lazy. Plus, stuffing is cheap and we have way too much chicken that needs used by tomorrow," he waved his hands around a bit before stepping off and gesturing for Kenny to follow after him.

She nodded, scanning over the description a bit, "Not gluten-free, then?"

"Or dairy," he rolled his eyes. "The _Pecorino di Farindola_ is cheese," he walked up beside her and pointed down to the line. "We're not doing substitutions, I'm gonna have Butters pre-mix the batch before we get people in."

"Cow?"

"Sheep," he corrected. "Push the absolute _fuck_ out of the _Krimiso Catarratto_ for a pairing," he scratched through his hair as Bebe nodded along, Kenny completely lost amid their discussion. "Or any of the higher end sauvignon blancs or chardonnays, those aren't seeming to sell as well as the reds."

Bebe smirked, "Who can blame them? Who _doesn't_ prefer red?" she tugged one of his curls and he looked at her with a wryly raised brow.

"Oh, so witty," he scoffed, pulling his hair out of her fingers and taking his belongings from the table. "You good to go out here?"

She looked around a bit and nodded, "Should be. We get those new napkins in yet?"

He shook his head, "We _should_ get 'em in by Saturday, but you know how our luck is with that shit." He turned to Kenny and smiled tiredly, jerking his head. "C'mon, I'll show you where you can put your…" he paused, brow raising. "Dude. Wear a coat."

Kenny smirked, "Not until snow hits the ground, Mom."

"So long as you don't get sick on me right away," he drawled. "Either way, let's get you set up." Kenny nodded, stepping off behind him and Bebe flicked his arm a bit, mouthing an _'it'll be fine'_ that settled his nerves in the slightest. He heaved a deep breath, following Kyle through the kitchen door and wincing as Kyle flipped on the lights, the color difference between the areas staggering. "All right," Kyle started, making way to his office and quickly unlocking it to mindlessly lob in his jacket. "Break room is back over there," he pointed down the wall behind the brick oven. "When you finally conclude pneumonia is a possibility, your coat goes in there." Kenny snorted, giving him a short nod. "You can eat lunch in there but most of us do at the bar, it's just easier to breathe," he shrugged. "We have special tickets over there by the heating lamps," he shifted his hand to direct towards the front of the room at a long, stainless steel bar with dangling lights, Kenny spotting a hanging pad of bright blue paper and a pen chained to the wall. "You write down your order and your name on those and then the chefs know it's for you and won't send it to the floor. You can get your own soda or whatever from the bar."

"Is there like… a break schedule or?" he winced.

Kyle shook his head, awkwardly reaching around his corner and fumbling his hand around the wall, "Nah. We'll help you figure it out your first few shifts, but eventually you'll get into a good mindset of when's a good time to go. Usually we just try to keep it to one chef and one 'other' off at a time for lunch so we're not two down in one department. You're all adults, I'm not going to tell you when you're allowed to sneak out for a smoke. Just you know, try to keep it reasonable, that's all I ask."

Kenny blinked, almost overwhelmed with that amount of freedom right off the bat. "Yeah, that's no problem."

"Good," he nodded, finally snatching his chef's coat and apron from the hanging hook by the doorframe and pulling them against himself, shutting his door and sighing. "Okay, rundown," he started, setting his bag and drink onto the pantry prep station and slipping on his found items. "You're, for a lack of better term, the chefs' bitch. Not as much as Butters though. Since you hold the cards on their pans being cleaned efficiently, they're pretty much at your mercy," he shrugged as he rolled his sleeves to his mid-forearm, Kenny giving him a small snort. "There's never _not_ a dirty dish once we get started. And you have the unfortunate job of _also_ needing to clean off the tables. Wait staff will let you know when there's a party leaving. That is _always_ the priority, we're almost always full out there so we need everything ready to go for the next group."

Kenny nodded slowly, watching Kyle moving over to one of the sinks, shifting it on and waiting for the water heater to kick on as he struggled to smash his head wrap over his curls. He growled, managing to tie it and declaring it good enough as he moved to wash his hands. "Dish sink is back there, which you've seen," he jerked his head down the small hall. "If anyone tries to wash something in there that isn't a dish aside from their hands, punch them in the face and let me know."

"I feel like punching them in the face might slow your serving time," he smirked, moving to tie his apron around his waist.

Kyle shrugged, turning off the faucet with the back of his wrist and snatching a clean hand towel from the counter. "Worth it if they learn their lesson. They don't wash food in there, you don't wash dishes in these," he motioned to the three deep sinks behind him. "Everything here has its place," he gestured around the room. "You'll learn all of it soon enough. Now, we have a pretty good surplus of plates, silverware, glasses, all that customer crap," he waved off, throwing the towel back onto the counter and walking over towards the sauce station. Kenny watched him bending down under a counter and snatching up a large stockpot to bring back over by his supplies and grabbing a bulb of garlic and a large onion along the way. He gulped, wondering if he was ever so good at multitasking when training new cashiers. But considering his tendency to trip over his own foot, he couldn't imagine it looked as natural as Kyle made it seem. Kyle continued, "But, we have a limited number of things for the chefs. So, after sanitizing tables, keeping the kitchen supplies up to speed comes next. Then wiping down counters, _especially_ the meat prep station. Customer dishes come _last_ unless someone tells you otherwise. We have a pretty small dishwasher, so keep it open for the chefs' stuff. Rinse off dining plates and set them aside in sanitizer until you have downtime to work on them."

Kenny nodded, trying to keep up with the plethora of information being catapulted at his face. "How long does the dishwasher take?"

"Two minutes and forty-five seconds," he shrugged, looking up at him as he gripped a cutting board and knife from their holders under the counter. "But just remember: Here, _every_ minute counts. There's gonna be some stuff that you're just going to have to step away from to focus on what matters."

"Right, right," he tucked his hair behind his ear, looking around a bit. "So… sanitize. How do I go about doing that?"

He pointed towards the dish hall, "Go back there, there's a cabinet on the right with all your stuff. Grab the spray bottle I have marked for the kitchen counters and a rag."

"Got it," he nodded, turning on his heel and taking a deep breath as he made way towards his destination. Okay, so a _lot_ to take in at once, but so far, so good. He hadn't pissed him off or gotten a dirty look yet; it was practically a record for Kenny's smart mouth. Given he hadn't exactly had the _time_ for sass with such a barrage of instruction already bearing on top of him. He grimaced. The gas station taught him how the register worked and how to keep the hot dog machine rolling when it jammed up in about five minutes and left him on his own. This one was not going to be so damn simple, it seemed.

' _Thirteen-fifty, Ken,'_ he reminded himself, stepping up in front of a charcoal steel cabinet and ripping open the double doors, eyes flittering and widening at the ridiculous amounts of bottles and materials lying in wait. Nearly identical gallon-sized chemical bottles took the bottom shelf for themselves, Kenny squinting at the prominent _'Sani-512'_ stamped so proudly in gold along a set of labels and another splash of grey text in the remainder reading _'Bacti-Free'_. A quick pass showed a good eight jugs, an apparent favorite brand as far as he could tell.

He glanced up to the sprayers along his eye level, snatching one displayed upfront reading _'Countertops'_ in immaculately straight writing for such a curved surface. Kenny cringed. God, Kyle was even a perfectionist in his _penmanship._ The guy would probably have a _heart attack_ if he saw how Kenny and Craig lived with their cigarette butts and beer bottles and unwashed tea mugs lingering about in disarray. He supposed he could only be thankful that a damn home inspection wasn't part of the hiring criteria. He shook his head, reaching and grasping one of the folded white cloths stacked to the side of the row and closed the doors back up with a loud _clang_.

He winced, wondering if they could hear that on the damn dining floor as loud as it was, continuing to hear it echo as he stepped back out of the hall. He turned and found Kyle crushing garlic pieces with the flat edge of his knife and the heel of his palm, picking off skin and setting the freed cloves in a pile to mince. A part of him was fascinated as he seamlessly began to chop, watching the blade roll smoothly from front to back. Kyle's stare never wavered as he kept the cloves steady with his free hand, carefully moving it along out of the blade's path but a hair away, close enough for Kenny to wonder where the first aid kit was because there was no _way_ people pulling that weren't constantly chopping off fingers. "Loud as shit, ain't it?" Kyle commented casually, scraping the edge along his board to recollect his pile and slice through it again, caught in a repetitive motion that'd become his second nature. "Hate that damn thing, but it was free when I got the place."

"Well, that makes it tolerable," he shrugged.

"Exactly," he nodded sharply, regathering his pieces and carefully slipping off remnants with his finger. "Go ahead and start wiping down all the counters and prep sinks," he gestured around before placing his hand on the back of his blade and quickening his pace over his diminishing foe. He took a long breath, lost in the pungent stench of oils seeping through and sticking in the ridges of his fingers. _"Solo un po, bambino cuoco"_ his maestro had told him time and again as he'd hovered over his chopping station. _"Troppo e si rovina il vostro lavoro."_

Only a little in each dish. Too much would ruin his work; he needed only enough for _enhancement_ unless it was the selling point of the meal. It was a tricky trade to learn, a half a clove could take a recipe between underwhelmingly _dimenticabile_ or bitterly _pungente._ His rule of thumb for daily recipes relied on the adhesiveness of his fingers, how long it would take for his skin to pry apart in the dousing of flavorful spill. His chefs hadn't quite fell into his step with that one oddity of his, telling him, _"Kyle, seriously. Just how many cloves and we'll accommodate with size, we don't have time to have a stopwatch for our fingers."_

He knew this wasn't a science, as had been drilled into his head in his studying years; he knew better than anyone in his building that every dish in fact _was_ an art. But an artist of any worth knew just how much clay one could add to the sculpture before it became top-heavy and collapsed, how much one could chip away at the marble before they were left with nothing but dust.

Kenny turned from observing Kyle's flowing work to attend to his own, stepping to the nearest counter and pausing. "Uh, prefer me to spray the _rag_ or what?"

He smirked, flickering his eyes on him for but a moment, "Wow, you asked." He finished his last go-round and carefully gathered his garlic pieces, lobbing them down into his pot. "Last guy didn't. I was _not_ amused," he chuckled. "But no, you can spray right on. It's food safe. Don't you know… _spray the food_ , but it won't kill anyone is there's a splash or so. We wash anything kept in the open anyway."

"Gotcha," he nodded, moving to begin cleaning as Kyle snatched up a pristine white onion, shaking his head as he chopped off the ends and began prying away the skin. He'd wanted his damn sweet _yellow_ onions, but apparently, vendors couldn't get _that_ right, either and sent him a substitution from their low stock. It was a minor thing, no diner would _ever_ know the difference, but he did. He knew he'd have to add a _sprinkle_ more sugar into his sauce to combat this _imposter bulb's_ flavors. Bradley had told him he was _crazy_ when he'd informed him of the changes to be made with smaller batches throughout the day, that there wasn't nearly enough of a difference for him to be worriedly tapping at his arms as he explained the _"terrible"_ situation.

At least one good glare had _that_ little questioning of his judgment fixed right up. If only he could intimidate the damn vendors in the same way. He'd sent Chad a request to bring him home a bag or four from the grocery store when he'd made a stop the night prior, only coming home to find four bags of goddamn _red_ onions set along the counter.

" _They were out of yellow, I thought this would be good enough,"_ he'd claimed, looking too damn apologetic and baffled at his frustrations for Kyle to do anything more than sigh and nod with a quiet thank you, knowing he'd never concoct a decent enough recipe to work all those damn bulbs into before they spoiled. His afternoon routine had had an added stop of going to an alleyway dumpster to toss out the bags so Chad would think he'd taken them to work regardless of his flub and wouldn't feel bad. And so his damn apartment wouldn't reek.

He glanced towards Kenny scrubbing intensely at the counter beside one of the sinks and laughed. "Dude. It's a burn. It's not gonna come off. Not without some trial and error with boiling vinegar."

"I feel like that wouldn't be safe."

"There's a reason it's been there for two years," he snorted, hurriedly dicing the onion and tossing it in with his garlic, moving to discard skins into the waste compartment of his station.

Kenny nodded, "Makes sense," he moved on to the sink and began spraying it down, taking another glance at the scorched streak. "Okay. I gotta ask. How do you do that to a counter?"

"A lack of sleep and fucked up blood sugar," he rolled his eyes, pushing aside his knife and board and reaching down for an oil dispenser.

"So far all I'm gathering is a Xenomorph got a papercut in here if it's about blood."

He snorted, pulling his stockpot down and dousing his vegetables in olive oil before moving towards the sauce stove. "Unfortunately nothing so exciting, and I think a burn would be the _least_ of our problems in that scenario. That and it'd be a little more than scorched."

"Don't mess with my self-insert fanfiction, now, that change is the only way I lived," he joked, Kyle sputtering with laughter as he switched on a burner to low and positioned his pot to hover over the middle of the flame.

"Pretty sad when you can't think to just increase your own abilities. Even Ripley didn't need to _cheat_ ," He smirked as Kenny looked at him with a pout. He shook his head, moving back to his station and fumbling through his bag, prying out Tupperware containers prepped from home filled with a good forty peeled and seeded San Marzano tomatoes. "No, I was stupid one day and came in when I shouldn't have…" he trailed off, glancing around his kitchen for the large plastic bowl stained pink on the inside from years of single-purpose use. He caught sight of it resting on top of the produce refrigerator, teeth gritting. "You gotta be kidding me," he muttered, moving over towards it and standing on his toes to reach, fingertips barely brushing along the plastic.

Kenny stole a glance and fought to hold down a snort, focusing back on his sink. He'd dealt with Tweek struggling to reach for things enough in his lifetime to know to not say a damn word until _he_ requested the help. He'd never quite gotten how that would smash someone's pride, but then again, inheriting and surpassing his father's 6'2" height never exactly handed him that problem to confront.

"Goddammit, you Russian _prick_ ," Kyle growled, hopping a bit before sinking back down onto the soles of his feet and staring up at his dish tiredly, wondering if he should just climb on the fucking counter and have Kenny just really goddamn scrub it down. He glanced towards the working busser, seeing him straining to not look over in _amusement_ at his suffering. "Instead of standing there trying not to piss yourself at my genetic misfortune, can you get this stupid thing, please?"

Kenny couldn't help a small cough of a laugh, nodding and stepping over to him. "Scary grill cook does this often I presume?" he teased, easily snatching the bowl around the sides and passing it to him.

Kyle took it from him with a sigh. "Could've at least _pretended_ to struggle," he said dryly, Kenny shrugging in apology and heading back to his work. Kyle grabbed a pair of plastic gloves from a torn box beside the appliance before following suit. "But yeah, Kashkov thinks it's the funniest fucking thing in the world to put stuff out of my reach. It's all right though, I get him back."

"What, you use a ladder to get out of _his_ reach?" he guessed.

Kyle shook his head with a grin, snapping off Tupperware lids. "No, I made the rule that the pans he uses most are to be put in the _lowest_ cabinets. I call that pretty even."

"Cruel," he laughed. "He only puts things a few inches out of your reach. You put like, a mile between him and his stuff."

"I'm the boss. Go big or go home," he shrugged.

Kenny chuckled, nodding along as he moved on down the line towards Kyle's simmering vegetables, carefully working on the countertop next to the flame. "Anyway. Burn."

"Right right," Kyle nodded, dumping tomatoes into his rescued bowl. "So, we did this dessert special a few years back for Sweetest Day, we made this chocolate raspberry mousse crap because couples love to share cups of that," he rolled his eyes. "Anyway, we made it with meringue as a topping. And with meringue, you brown it with a butane torch. I think you can figure out what happened from there."

He gave him a half-baked sympathetic smile. "Yeahhhh, torches and tired aren't a good combo."

"Lesson was learned," Kyle chuckled, rolling his sleeves further and snapping on his gloves. "Everyone pretty much ganged up on me and threw me out the door to go home. Sent one of the runners with me to make sure I didn't pass out in the street." He shook his head, reaching into his bowl and sighing as he crushed tomatoes between his fingers, letting the fruited juices seep out along his coated palms in bloody trails.

Kenny clucked his tongue, making way to the meat prep station. "Most people would push their boss _into_ traffic, so at least you don't have that issue."

"Yeah no, not here," he shrugged through his squishing. "Or at least, if I do, they're _really_ good at hiding it, even from Bebe. And honestly, it'd be easy to make my death look like an accident in here so apparently they're not _too_ mutinous if at all."

"You realize you just told the new guy that," he teased. "You don't know my side job, I could be a professional murderer on my off days."

"Eh. Just don't track blood in my kitchen and whatever," he smirked, carefully maneuvering through his fruits to press along. "Not my business what you do as a hobby. 'Sides, you'd be the prime suspect."

He nodded, "Unless you had a dick customer the same day everyone knew about. Suspicions would shift."

Kyle paused, considering this. "Damn. Good point. Tell ya what, Man, it's not far off. You give someone _polenta_ instead of _riso_ on accident and they're likely to slam you into a table, temple first."

Kenny cringed, wiping along the edge of the countertop and seeing his wavering reflection in the stainless-steel surface as the streaked moisture faded. At least he didn't have _that_ problem he'd have to handle. "Does it really get that bad?"

He sighed and shrugged half-heartedly. "Not that often, we do pretty good at keeping people happy and keeping orders straight… but there's _always_ gonna be someone just trying to gyp you and eat half their food before saying _'well this isn't what I ordered',"_ he mocked. "Then why the _fuck_ did you eat so much of it? I think you'd know it wasn't _chicken_ before you took a bite of a _filet mignon_."

"Ugh," Kenny shook his head. "That's some high-class bullshit. No offense to you or nothin', but you'd think anyone coming in here would know they're gonna have to pay a decent amount."

He nodded, squeezing the last of his tomatoes and carefully moving to peel off his gloves inside-out. "No offense taken. We're not a fucking _Olive Garden_. You'd be _amazed_ how many people request me out on the floor and ask if I have _coupons_ for 'em or if we do _endless pasta nights_. Like… _No_? I'm a goddamn independent owner, I don't have millions of dollars to fall back on if my supply exceeds demand. And most of our stuff goes bad within a week since we don't flash-freeze anything."

"Not lookin' to open a franchise then?" he smirked, looking back at him.

He chuckled, shaking his head as he tossed his gloves into the trash. "Not in the least. I kind of like having my eye on everything that happens so I can fix anything that comes up. Can't really do that in a location I'm not consistently at."

"Makes sense," he agreed, watching him turn with his bowl to make way for his smoking stockpot. "I mean you said you're almost always packed, though, so you could probably make it work."

He smiled, dumping out his tomato massacre atop his garlic and onion, listening to the rich sizzle of the juice slamming into the bottom of the pot and backing from the billow of steam shooting into the open air. "We're always packed because of quality control. I can't trust other people to be as damn picky as I am with our stuff, and I can't be there to supervise newer cooks when I have my own staff to take care of."

"Not just a recipe-followin' kinda place I take it."

He shook his head, stirring through his concoction with a long wooden spoon, letting the flavors meld before slapping on a flat lid and moving to drop his bowl off into Kenny's sink and rinse the garlic oil from his hands. "Not even close. If restaurants were judged just based on ability to follow recipes, then fuckin' _McDonalds_ would be considered a gourmet meal. You don't get recognition based on that alone, there's always gonna be a little something more involved in a proprietorship. Barely anything goes through this kitchen without my approval."

Kenny chuckled, folding over his sopping rag to try to distribute the mess. "Sounds exhausting."

He shrugged, switching off the faucet and shaking out his hands. "Worth it. You were there for the disaster of someone not checking the delivery thoroughly enough. And I didn't get my damn star by sending someone to _Meijer_ for shoddy produce."

He paused, eyes narrowing as he absorbed his sentence and turning back to him. "Wait. _Star_? As in… _one_?"

Kyle stared at him for a moment before clearing his throat. "Yeah, that's part of why I don't advertise it, because people not obsessed with this kind of stuff don't get how big a fuckin' deal that is," he laughed softly, cheeks gaining a bit of color from letting it just slip off his damn tongue. "We got on the recommendation list from Forbes, which is _pretty much_ three stars. And we got one _actual_ star from Michelin which is… fucking rare," he smiled sheepishly, looking down at his hands as he dried them.

Kenny was still fucking _baffled_ by how happy he looked at such a _low_ count. "High standards I take it?"

"Their system is based on three stars, and they have _crazy_ high expectations. They critiqued I think six hundred restaurants in the city that first year they came here," he shrugged. "Thirty of us got stars. About a hundred just got recommended."

He blinked, "Goddamn."

"Fuckin' right?" he snorted, tossing the towel onto the rack beside the sink. "I don't go around throwing it into ads or anything, I just kind of stuck it on the website with their review so they didn't like, think I was _ungrateful_. Anyone that cares will have the damn guide as is and know we're worth seeing. Instead of plastering it on a damn billboard when I got the news, I just called my ma fucking crying and they flew me home like two days later to celebrate."

He laughed, stuck in a loose state of disbelief at the clash of modesty and pure gratification he could see beaming from him as he moved to start gathering more vegetables to prep to get Butters' station started with the vague hope it'd help him keep up. "That's _really_ cool," he finally said, Kyle looking at him with a quirked brow. He shrugged, "I dunno, just sounds like it's super fuckin' huge. If I were you, I'd probably stand at the damn door like a fuckin' Walmart greeter and yell it at anyone who walked in."

He grinned, pulling open the produce fridge and snatching heads of romaine from the crisper drawer. "Trust me, I was damn close when it happened. Chad was the one who told me to calm my damn roll and keep it subtle."

"What? Why would he do that?" he blinked.

Kyle shrugged, "Because no one likes a show-off? And I asked for his opinion, so it's not like I can be pissed or anything that he gave me it. Besides, he was right, honestly. I would've came to the same conclusion after a while of letting it settle. Week of, though I was jumping around like I was six and just got told I got a goddamn pony…" He let out a wistful sigh as he moved to begin washing off his mounds of lettuce. He still abstractedly wondered throughout the last two years of keeping his rating what could've been had he followed his family and Stan's initial advice, let the goddamn city _know_ just what he could do.

" _You worked so hard for this, Dude,"_ Stan had reminded him while out to lunch before Kyle headed for the airport, the first to know only minutes after Kyle had received the word and nearly as excited as Kyle himself had been at the news. _"Why_ wouldn't _you boast the hell out of that shit? You went from nothing to_ this _. Fuckin' scream it at people, Man."_

" _Kyle, it'd be such a great boost for you!"_ his mother had exclaimed once he'd gotten home. _"You'd get people with more money to spend coming in!"_

" _No one is saying light it up on the skyline, but no one would judge you for putting it in your ads,"_ his dad had chimed in.

His little brother had sat off to the side, shaking his head at him in disapproval for his minor reluctance. _"Stop being a fucking retard, you goddamn homo. You fucking_ won _. Let the people who didn't get shit know that."_

" _And set myself up to be fuckin' murdered out of spite by the guy runnin' the fuckin' falafel joint down the street that couldn't even get a rec?"_

" _Yes. But then you can have_ 'I still have my star, motherfuckers' _on your headstone, so you still win."_

They'd made it sound so damn easy, like he was completely out of his mind for not jumping right onto this opportunity and already ordering the flyers. And he'd found himself agreeing with them the more they talked. He'd spent all his time in Jersey and the flight back to Illinois imagining how he could slap it onto every damn piece of marketing he could, lost in the hyperbolic dreams of flourishing into such booming success he could buy out his neighbors and expand the restaurant. Coming back to a lunch with Chad had finally grounded him, though, brought him back into the realization of just how rare it was that stars were kept throughout a restaurant's reign.

" _Dude, sound at least a_ little _impressed for me,"_ he'd pouted at Chad's considering face as he chomped his way through a sandwich, making a twisted face at the sour punch of flavoring. Who the fuck put _that_ much relish into goddamn tuna, anyway?

" _I am, I am,"_ he'd promised, shaking his head at Kyle poking at his food like it was a trap and shooting small, suspicious looks at the kitchen. _"I think it's amazing, I do. I just also think you should slow down and think about it. You barely put out ads as is and you're doing great. Why increase the number when it may do nothing more than end up with_ you _spending more money?"_

He'd paused. _"Well… what if it gets me customers willing to spend more?"_ he'd quoted his mother with a sheepish shrug. _"I could increase my profits, make up for the loss and then some."_

" _But what if it doesn't?"_ he'd countered. _"Kyle, you're already serving people with money to spare, your place isn't exactly cheap. I don't think just adding in that you got a star is going to bring in celebrities or anything like that."_

"… _The mayor likes us. He's… kinda famous."_

" _And has he brought in other 'kinda famous' friends? Does he drop thousands of dollars every time he comes in?"_ he'd winced. _"I think it's awesome you got what you did, but I don't want you to put something like that out there and then not see any kinds of changes. It'd kill you. I just don't think that's a risk worth taking when you're already doing so well, that's all."_

"Uh, Kyle?" a voice brought him back into the kitchen, snapping his head over to find Kenny staring at him, "Counters are done. What now?"

He blinked, ripping out his romaine from the water to shake off droplets and clearing his throat. "Uh, on the bottom shelf of the cabinet there's big gallon jugs, get one of the ones that say _'Bacti-Free'_ for a third sink. That's for the dishes to soak in, I'll show you how to dilute it."

"Gotcha," he saluted, turning on his heel and heading back down the mini-corridor.

Kyle sighed, snagging another clean towel from above and placing his lettuce atop the fabric as he turned off the sink, bringing the bundle to his station and putting them down to dry for a bit. He watched a trail of water beading over a wide leaf, trailing over ridges and clinging around the edge, clasping until gravity took its toll and sent it splattering onto the towel to blend in with its smeared comrades.

Maybe he should just be thankful in a way for keeping that on the downlow. Even if such news _did_ bring him in more people, that'd just make times like this more strenuous. Short-staffed meant not everything was meeting his high standards, at least not on the inside. The food remained steady, his wait staff kept themselves looking professional and himself and any chef requested on the floor could put on a friendly, calm face for a diner's benefit. But in here it was a mess. Tensions were high and adding _more_ pressure onto his people might end up with that mutiny becoming a very _real_ possibility. He couldn't imagine how well they'd be holding up with people expecting _more_ and _better_ service and everyone walking in asking him _'Well, I just want to know how you_ got _that star. Who'd you have to blow? You obviously can't_ handle _that kind of recognition and don't deserve it.'_

And besides, as Chad was so damn good at reminding him: That star could be ripped out from under him at any moment. Ads would have to be pulled immediately and the entire city would see him suffering a humiliating blow against his craft. Quiet modesty was the best policy here, he'd convinced himself. He wouldn't even have to tell his staff in that case, he'd just silently break apart from the inside-out and let himself wander to that falafel joint owner and irritate him enough to be drowned in tahini.

"This guy, right?" Kenny called, displaying a half-filled jug with an eager smile, earlier worry seeming gone from his face with enough casual chatter to get himself moving.

Kyle grinned back, nodding softly and stepping off from his dripping produce. Recognition meant nothing right now, his pride could definitely be put on hold until he had more to throw out into the world. Right now, this was plenty enough. The stench of marinara beginning to simmer was flooding through the kitchen, tables were fixed and things were for once running smooth in their opening routine without a crisis. And as a bonus, he finally had someone else to clean the damn dishes.

Couldn't get more close to perfect than that.


	12. What a Pair

The differences between his days were utterly astonishing. The world seemed to move so damn _slow_ from behind his cash register. Watching person after person coming through and dawdling about, taking up space at the pumps and rudely disrupting the flow of traffic, Kenny couldn't help but feel a level of disdain for them that he hadn't experienced in some time. It felt foreign from his _usual_ contempt against the customer base. Typically, he was mad that they were being rude, treating the store like their personal garbage can, or just generally _existing_. But today he was just _impatient_. Never before had people seemed to _mosey_ as they did now, none of them seeming to have the slightest care in the world, even as the second shifters came in looking for their afternoon coffee before heading off to the daily grind.

He leaned down on the counter, propping his cheek in his palm and sighing. He knew that the stupid security camera hovering over him was seeing his 'slacking', and corporate would no doubt send his manager an email claiming _'Um, your_ servants _shouldn't be leaning on the job, it looks unprofessional; what will the customers think?!'_ Sweeping his eyes over the selection of patrons inching around his store, Kenny would wager that none of them came anywhere _near_ giving a flying shit if he was leaning or standing there goddamn stark naked. They just wanted their overpriced foodstuffs and their hit of caffeine and a scratch-off ticket in the vague hopes that they'd be an automatic winner and get to call their bosses right there in his store and tell them to fuck right off. Same story, different faces.

He sighed tiredly, straightening back up as a young woman approached his counter with bags under her eyes and brown hair unkempt, unloading an armful of soda and three bags of diapers in front of him. He shot her a sympathetic smile, "New kiddo?"

She nodded with a half-baked returned expression. "Two months."

"Dang, guessin' that's been a laugh 'n a half," he said, turning bottles to their UPCs and running his scanner down the line in a steady streak of high pitched beeps.

"First time I've left the house on my own since she was born," she rolled her eyes, digging through a worn leather purse. "What's that tell you?"

He smirked, "That I really need to reconsider the whole 'really wantin' kiddos' thing I got goin' for me."

She laughed softly and shook her head as she pulled out her wallet and Kenny set forth on bagging her items. "She's great, but my fiancé works all the time so it's just rough going for now."

"Well hopefully it gets better," Kenny said with a small smile, watching her slide her credit card through and leading the register through its aggravatingly tedious acceptance process. She nodded in agreement through a stifled yawn, Ken glancing up at the sound of the door chime going off and meeting a pair of unamused brown eyes. He hummed, turning his attention back to the overwhelmed mother's receipt noisily crawling its way out of the machine and ripping it off as soon as the tape came to a stop. He shoved it down into one of her bags and helped arrange them for her to snag a bit more easily. She nodded in silent thanks, hefting the bags with a sigh and dragging herself back out the door, avoiding Jess on her way by as she trudged back to her binky-filled Alcatraz.

Kenny clicked his tongue, watching Jess make her way towards the back counter. "You're _actually_ a little early," he commented. "You dyin'?"

She scoffed, "No, Tom told me to show up early in case you just went full-on running out the door since you have no consequences here anymore."

He rolled his eyes. Shoulda figured. He'd been getting inimical glares from his boss the entire past week, doing his best to ignore him but just feeling more and more resentment for not going full-steam-ahead working at Kyle's place. "My last day isn't even until _Monday_ ," he drawled. "He can stop bein' a drama queen about it."

"Mhm," she said disinterestedly, slipping off her fleece hoodie and shoving it under the counter.

Kenny scoffed, "What's _your_ problem?"

She shrugged, "Just up and leavin' with no warning, huh?"

"I gave my two weeks. That's _plenty_ of warning," he cocked his brow. "And yeah, I got a better job, why would I stick around here if I could get out? Who the hell _wouldn't_?"

Jess sighed through her nose, shrugging again. "Yeah, you're right. Sorry, Tom's just been so goddamn _unbearable_ about it. Keeps sayin' we don't have enough people to cover the hours or somethin' if you're leaving."

He rolled his eyes, "Dude, you _know_ he's full of shit. He'll forget I even existed by next Wednesday."

She nodded slowly, observing customers walking around with him and clicking her tongue. "So. New job, huh? Where at?"

Kenny shrugged, "A restaurant."

"Joel's?" she guessed. "I know they're hirin' like _crazy_ since the little workers' strike they had."

He shook his head, "Nah. Place in Chicago. Bussin' for some fancy little Italian place."

She paused, narrowing her eyes and looking at him in disbelief. "You're gonna travel an _hour_ every day for a minimum wage _bussing_ job?"

A smile quirked on his lips, "Well, no. Over minimum. Dude, did you know _their_ minimum is three bucks over what it is here?" he asked, looking towards her with wide eyes. "And this guy is payin' me two bucks over _that_ , so it's worth the trip."

Jess looked up in thought, running through the math before her eyes widened. "You're making _thirteen dollars_ to _clean tables?"_

He nodded briskly, "Thirteen fifty. Don't tell me you wouldn't drop this place like a hot potato if you snagged a chance like that."

"I'd be dancing out the door wiping my ass on the merchandise," she snorted. "You working for a goddamn millionaire or somethin'?"

Kenny shook his head, "Nah, but he has this _really_ classy-ass place. Like, we'd get thrown out probably if we came in dressed like this," he gestured between their jeans and uniform shirts. "Dude, I wear a dress shirt and I wash the goddamn dishes; like, he is _not_ fuckin' around with looking like they _do_ cater to millionaires."

She looked him up and down skeptically, "Doesn't seem like your kind of digs."

"For that pay, _anywhere_ is my kind of digs," he scoffed.

She hummed, reaching back and grabbing her phone out of her pocket, hurriedly swiping it open and heading towards her browser. "What's this place called?"

He looked up, squinting. "Uh… okay, well it's _spelled_ L-u-c-i, space, d-a—"

"Gar…die…no?" she quirked her brow at the autofill popping below her search bar.

He blinked, "I know that's not right, but I can't actually _correct_ you. But yeah, that's the place." He turned up as a customer came to his counter with far too many bags of pretzels in his opinion, launching into casual conversation as Jess looked over the webpage loading over her screen. She made a soft sound at the simplistic layout, didn't exactly give off the impression of _amazingly posh_.

She clicked her tongue, "Oh, independent place," she commented. "A _proprietor_ and everything."

Kenny smirked and nodded as he fumbled through cash he was handed and worked in his till. "Yeah, guy opened it like, four years ago. Dude's _our_ age."

"Well isn't he _special_?" she drawled, missing Kenny shaking his head and handing the customer his change, bidding him a nice day as she clicked on through, sliding along the menu. "I can't even _pronounce_ any of this food," she scoffed.

"Authentic stuff," he shrugged. "I'm guessing most people who eat at the place either just point or pronounce it off enough to make my boss' head hurt." He leaned over her shoulder, looking as she scrolled through the familiar menu layout and eyes darting towards the travelling sidebar. "Look at the reviews, I wanna see somethin'," he requested.

She nodded, clicking where told and both watching with surprise at a wall of text splashing onto the screen. "Damn. He gets graded a _lot_ ," she commented.

Kenny couldn't say he was shocked with that observation, looking back up at another customer. "Find one from Michelin, he was talkin' about it yesterday and I'm kinda curious."

She did so, finding it straight away posted at the top and cocking her head. "One star? Why the hell would you post a _one star_ review?"

"Long story. Read it," he said as he handled bottles of water and candy bars galore.

Jess let out a long sigh, zooming in on the paragraph and clicking her tongue, letting out a soft groan of contempt at the pretention found in a quick glance-over and wondering if she could even articulate half of it. " _'Seated comfortably hovering above the Chicago River, this cozy Italian milieu is a delightful blend of Tuscan architecture and Sicilian cuisine. Bar packed with enough wine to sate even the most fastidious of connoisseurs, one can find themselves lost in the ambiance of warmth and silken olive leaves blocking out the happenings of the city. Beaming with the heart and soul of Southern Italy, young up-and-coming chef Kyle Broflovski and his staff charm and delight with authentically crafted dishes; from the powerful, smoky bite of the hand-crafted amalgam of meats in the olive_ _all'ascolana, to the simplistic subtlety in a large helping of carbonara brimming with pancetta. And while portions may seem daunting, no one could blame you for setting aside the rest to be taken home and indulging in a deservedly 'cliché' slice of house-made tiramisu. More than worth the price to indulge in the atmosphere and flavors alike.'"_

Jess looked up at Kenny as she finished with a raised brow. " _Really_?" she drawled. "Does this guy _bathe_ in Dom Perignon or something?"

Ken smirked, handing off his customer's goodies and looking down at her. "You mean my boss or whoever wrote the review?"

"Either/or," she scoffed, scrolling through other reviews and shaking her head. " _Definitely_ doesn't seem like your type of place, McCormick."

He shrugged, brushing a lock of hair back and leaning on the counter once more. "Again, pay," he said, glancing out the window at a blustery autumn afternoon raging onwards. He quirked his lips in thought, wondering why in the living _hell_ Kyle wouldn't go on and plaster that all over the damn restaurant with _that_ kind of ego boost. Seeming 'show-offy' or not, it appeared like it was damn _earned_. It seemed even _more_ impressive than he'd made it sound, and more than explained why he seemed so happy mentioning it at the very least. If Kenny got something so simple as a damn _employee evaluation_ singing praises so high, he'd probably be set for life and never need another kind word again.

He hummed, flickering his eyes back into the store at the people ambling along and shaking his head. Jess was wrong. _This_ kind of place wasn't one that he belonged in. Only one day at the restaurant and he was still somewhat exhausted, but felt like he had _accomplished_ something. Downtime didn't exist, and he never knew he functioned so _well_ in such an environment. It was a nonstop barrage of movement and yelling, utensils clanging and the sound of fires shooting towards the ceiling with the sizzles of oils and wine splashing into stainless steel cookware. Caught in the seamless mess of efficiency, he'd rolled straight along with the motions, not noticing time ticking right on by as he kept on his feet.

He'd taken only two breaks in a ten-hour shift, beyond baffled when Red informed him the last party was leaving and looking up at the kitchen clock to find with a shocked flinch it was already 10:24. The day had _flown_ by. Standing with the rest of the staff for Kyle's nightly meeting before all but himself and Kenny went home to close shop, Ken had been beyond impressed at how the chefs kept themselves upright, all looking so goddamn tired but smiling at profit declarations and specific compliments that came in from the dining floor. He and Kyle had managed to get everything up to standards by 12:17, and Kenny had never seen anyone as happy to be able to go home at that hour as Kyle was. It felt almost _ridiculous_ , getting complimented on efficiency for _washing dishes_ and _wiping down prep stations_ , but it was work that needed done, and Kyle just couldn't handle doing all that on his own _plus_ nightly paperwork anymore.

Kenny now _more_ than understood why Kyle had told him from the get-go that he was desperate for workers. He'd watched throughout the day as his boss was torn left and right with things to do, getting called onto the floor at least once an hour and having to smooth down frizzed hair, take a deep breath, and slap on a professional smile despite how he'd just dealt with a misplaced order ticket and all hell was breaking loose.

Kenny found it admirable in a way, knowing that were he in the same position, he probably would've broken a nose or two by about four o'clock. There was no fooling when Kyle seemed to be on the precipice of something similar, coming back into the kitchen with a scowl hitting his face and automatically directing himself towards an activity where he got to viciously slice pieces of meat in half or assist Annie and direct all his frustrations into hand-whisking a thick concoction of mascarpone and yolks.

Despite exasperations abound, however, that kitchen was a well-oiled machine. People barely having to look up as they slid around each other, plates traveling from person to person to be piled with individually made pieces until forming the completed puzzle of the meal and setting it free to the runners. He'd done decently enough keeping up with the chefs and what they needed, only getting the occasional tease for handing someone the wrong damn pot or cleaning the damn _paring knife_ and not the _utility knife_. Kyle had told him in a quick pass-by loading chicken into the wood stove not to worry about it, that thirty extra seconds of someone waiting for the right meat fork wasn't going to kill anyone, and that everyone appreciated that he was just _there_.

Lethal or not, Kenny didn't want to be the only one in that kitchen that held up the traffic. Here in the station, he'd gladly dawdle if someone pissed him off enough. A snarky attitude from a smart-lipped cigarette procurer could easily lead to him pulling the wrong packs, "mishearing" them, doing everything in his power to make sure that the transaction dallied as long for them as it did for himself. Maybe at the restaurant it was just the feeling of _variation,_ that it would fade as soon as he got acclimated and find himself once more feeling a bit _laxer_ about just how proficiently he was getting dishes out and about. But who knew? As of now, looking down at his clock reading 12:58, he couldn't help but pout. He was stuck _here_ instead of heading into the city, getting himself a better rate and feeling like more than an unappreciated pile of dog shit.

Jess looked at his pitiful expression and shook her head, "Gonna miss bummin' my shifts off on you," she teased.

He snorted, "Gotta tell ya, I _ain't_ gonna miss that. Kind of lookin' forward to goin' somewhere that I don't gotta compete for hours."

She nodded, "Yeah, I get that. Gonna still come visit us?"

"I mean, you're a five-minute _walk_ from my apartment, so probably. Lord knows I still need my smokes."

Jess smirked, "Wow, FancyPants Incorporated lets you _smoke_?"

"Considering the boss does, yeah, I think he's chill with it," he chuckled, shaking his head and letting out a tired sigh, moving to begin punching out while Jess watched him, eyes drooping.

"You _sure_ you wanna work somewhere like that?" she asked.

He nodded, "I liked my first day. Lot better than I liked my first day working _here_ , that's for damn sure. Keeps me busy, ya know?"

"Yeah, that's nice until you don't get enough sleep and go in the next day dragging and can't stop for eight hours."

"My shifts are actually about ten. Actually apparently, more often than not, they're even _longer_ just depending on how long it takes to close," he shrugged, looking at her wide-eyed stare with a quiet chuckle. "Dude, it's a small business, and my boss made damn sure I knew what I was getting into so he wouldn't blindside me. 'Sides, you do the math. That's a lotta fuckin' money."

She made a soft humming noise, standing up as Kenny finished logging out and taking over to get into the system. "Is it gonna be worth it, though?"

He shrugged, pulling off his ballcap and running his fingers through his smashed hair. "Maybe, maybe not. I dunno. My roommate kind of convinced me to shut the fuck up and give it a chance before I make up my mind," he winced, moving to walk out the swinging waist-high door back around the front of the counter. "Even if it doesn't seem like a good fit, I can trudge through it and save up, ya know?"

She nodded, "Makes sense. Guess I won't be seein' ya around then, I don't work again 'til next Tuesday."

"Well, I told ya I'd visit," he said with a sheepish grin. "I'm a fuckin' parasite, Jess. Ain't no goin' back once I'm around."

"Understood. You're herpes."

"Damn handsome herpes, though," he fluttered his lashes, getting a dramatic eye roll out of her. He stepped aside of a customer making way towards the counter, giving Jess a small salute. "See ya 'round."

She waved him off dismissively, "See ya, Bigshot."

He winked and clicked his tongue, turning on his heel and heading straight out the door into the wind and taking a long breath. He glanced over at a man cussing out the price on the pump and shook his head. Two more days of that. Tomorrow and Saturday were about the restaurant. Sunday and Monday, he was wrangled back in here, knowing that every hour that ticked on by was an hour closer to his freedom. He smirked, pivoting and heading around the side of the building towards his distant apartment complex, fingers digging through his jeans for his cigarettes.

He couldn't say the idea killed him, regardless of lingering nerves that still wanted to circulate. After all, he'd had no amount of _relief_ at his presence when he started _here_. Nothing more than a disinterested hum and an immediate customer to take care of. But, standing in the kitchen, Kyle had gestured over to him at the beginning of the morning meeting with a simple _"This is Kenny. He's our new busser; everyone be nice and help him if he needs it,"_ and had been met with a resounding _"Thank fucking_ _ **god**_ _"_ from his staff. Ken knew it was only because of the burden on their shoulders, that should he have just been the only replacement needed, he wouldn't have had people looking at him like their Palmolive salvation. But the reasons mattered little, it was the results that counted. And those results were him being thanked profusely, being served little helpful tidbits when any of them had a moment for a breath, integrating into their _family_.

Maybe it wouldn't last. Maybe reality would come crashing back down on him all too soon. But, for now, he couldn't help but grin at the prospect of his next day's work and pay. He lit up his acquired cigarette and took a long, satisfied drag as he tromped through the wilting grass. It was _much_ fucking better than stocking goddamn pop.

* * *

Learning the flow of city traffic had never been something Kyle considered to be a challenge. He'd learned early on that Chicagoans were easy enough to either evade or shove out of his damn way if he needed to get through. Only a handful of times had his impatience been met with more than a flabbergasted scoff at his loutishness: Once a man yelling obscenities at him as he speed-walked away, once someone encouraging their dog to nip at his leg and then getting _grossly_ offended when he gently placed his shoe on the canine's point of shoulder and nudged it back towards its owner. And once a very unfortunate push through a group of much larger men than himself that did _not_ appreciate being bowled through just because he was running late for work. He could've only thanked high school track for getting out of that one, managing to lose them down an alleyway before darting to his restaurant, unlocking the door in haste and hiding Bebe and their old busser down with him under the window until he knew they were gone.

His employees had cackled at him about that one, reminding him that his eyes were much bigger than his fists and that he still needed to pick his battles carefully, even here. Bebe had teased him relentlessly about _'messing with a gang'_ until he was paranoid enough to think the restaurant would be goddamn _blown up_ before she finally told him that she was _joking_. That gangs weren't walking around in broad goddamn daylight around _the Loop_ looking to cause trouble.

" _Listen, can you_ blame _me for freaking out_?" he'd asked her. _"I don't fuckin' know gang turfs or anything like that!"_

She'd quirked her brow and laughed, _"Aren't you from Jersey? Doesn't seedy shit happen there, too?"_

" _Yes, but that was_ familiar _territory. I knew where and who to avoid,"_ he'd pouted. _"And I knew who could actually fuckin' kill me and who was talkin' out their ass and I could beat the shit outta 'em."_

Glancing around at the people he strolled along the sidewalk with, he had a feeling he could beat the shit out of about ninety percent of _these_ people. The rest were babies, and those didn't count unless they were teething.

He sighed, shifting his paper bag to his right hand, left fingers throbbing from the thin strap digging into the skin. Reaching into his pocket, he let his phone peek out of the confines, taking a gander at the illuminated 12:58 and nodding to himself. He had time if he hurried. He looked back up at an awning in the distance, letting out a long breath and brushing back his hair. He was tired, he _really_ didn't want to be at work today after a night spent tossing and turning in anxiety thinking he'd forgotten to do something with getting home so early. He'd had to get out of the damn bed and lie down on the couch after the third time accidentally hitting Chad with the back of his hand and getting a semi-frustrated groan and a half-awake "what's wrong?" His neck was killing him from propping up on the sofa arm, but he knew from experiences prior that it was only temporary. It'd be gone by the time he woke up the next day, and he wouldn't have another bout of a fit for a good month or two if all went well.

It was just a pain in the ass to work through the day after.

He came up to Canali's, glancing in through the shop window and smirking at the figure sitting behind the counter with a book in withered hands. He took a deep breath, reminding himself to buckle on down into patience before turning to his side and shouldering the door open, catching Sonia's attention with the tiny bell clanging above his head. She smiled, "Well, haven't seen you in a few weeks," she cooed.

Kyle snorted, "I saw you _last_ week, c'mon." He stepped fully into the shop and made way for the counter, stomach grumbling at the tempting array of robiola samples to his right as he passed.

She cocked her brow knowingly, "Take one."

"I'm fine-"

"Take. One," she ordered. He winced, taking a step back and doing as told, slipping a creamed cube of meshed cow, goat, and sheep's milk through his teeth, eyes nearly fluttering at the sweet influx oh-so-kindly gracing his tongue. Sonia straightened up with a superior grin on her face, Kyle rolling his eyes in amusement and continuing his way forward as he swallowed the cheese down with a subtle shudder.

"You know, I actually came in here for _you_ to get some food," he cooed, grinning at her eyes lighting up. He placed his bag down on the floor, snagging a clear Tupperware container laying atop his tomatoes. "Need your opinion before I make a big batch," he explained, placing it on the counter as she watched in interest. He pulled back the lid, both blinking at the robust aroma blasting out of the packaging from tiny pastry squares. He held them towards her with an eager smile, Sonia shaking her head with a chuckle and taking the sample. Always his process, never telling her just _what_ she was eating until she'd given her opinion.

She popped the square into her mouth, almost jolting in surprise at the surge of flavor springing behind her teeth. Placing a hand over her lips, she looked at him and nodded briskly. "It's _good_ ," she complimented, making a soft sound of surprise at her teeth sinking into a sundried tomato and feeling oils swirling through a wave of piquant cheese. "Little stringy, though," she continued, still chewing away.

"Well, it won't be like that fresh," he winced. "The cheese kind of ya know… _solidified_ on my walk over."

Sonia chuckled, swallowing the treat down and nodding in approval. "Either you get those off my counter or I eat the rest," she informed him.

He snorted, "Go for it. I have another box for the staff to try," he waved down towards his bag. She grinned, snatching another one from the container and he followed suit. "So, I take that as a yes, then?" he asked.

"Well, tell me what I'm eating first," she cocked her brow, popping the next between her lips. Not that it mattered. If he told her he was feeding her fish food and parsnips with a dash of sawdust she'd still want the damn recipe.

"So, I'm lookin' to put a new appetizer on the menu," he started. "And I noticed my current list is _severely_ lacking cheeses aside from the _mozzarelline fritte_. Which is just _tragic_."

"It really is," she concurred as he chewed through his own morsel.

He swallowed and cleared his throat, "So, I decided on a _crostata_ crust," he pointed towards the sweet, flaky dough. "And I got this ten-pound wheel of _Fontina d'Aosta_ for free when I ordered some wine for the restaurant, so I melted some of that down. And I mixed some spinach through that and put some sundried tomatoes on top," he pointed through the varying colors. "Now I _could_ use a subtler cheese if you think that'd be better," he shrugged, looking at her for advice.

Sonia shook her head, "Don't change a _thing_. This'll leave an _impression_. You won't get that with just _ricotta_ and _parmigiano-reggiano."_ He nodded, looking at the dish in consideration and a thin brow slowly raised over her wrinkled face. "Who told you otherwise?" she read from his expression.

Kyle looked up and gave her a small shrug. "Chad said it was kind of… uh… _pungent_ ," he said quietly.

She scoffed, shaking her head. "It's _Fontina_. Of _course_ it would be pungent!"

He nodded in agreement, "That's what I said. And I told him I'd make a note of it being a bit strong on the menu, maybe keep a sample or two for curious customers. He just kind of… said 'okay' and left for work."

As few stories as she'd gotten regarding Kyle's boyfriend, she didn't much care for him. Not with his _blatant disregard_ for _appreciating_ milky delicacies. Her entire life was rooted deep in those who were inclined to veer towards them; she couldn't say she had a fondness for those who would turn their noses at her shop, declaring it a waste of money to buy themselves a tanged round of _Pecorino Toscano_ that had been so tediously matured in grape must for four long months. Not when _Kroger_ was just around the corner and _grated Kraft Parmesan_ worked "just as well" for those types. "He's out of his mind," she finally said.

Kyle snorted, "Nah. He just doesn't like super strong foods. Which, hey, I get people like that in the restaurant all the time. That's what the damn _linguine al pomodoro_ is for. You know. The _weaklings_ ," he drawled, getting an agreeing laugh out of her. He propped his chin into his palm and sighed, looking down at the diminishing container of crostata. "Honestly I don't know why those kinds of people come in. If you want bland, go to a damn vegan joint or something."

"Right?" she raised her brow. "Who in this world thinks of _Italia_ , and doesn't think of _taste_?"

"People who've only had spaghetti with olive oil and garlic powder," he replied dryly, getting a suspicious look out of her that he shrugged at. "Chad may or may not have made me that for dinner for our anniversary," he sighed. "I told him he's never allowed near the concept of pasta again."

She nodded curtly, "Good. You don't deserve that kind of disrespect."

Kyle laughed, mindlessly gripping at his index finger and twisting it a bit. "He tried," he said quietly. "Swing and… a _hell_ of a miss, but hey, I didn't have to cook it. And it was one of his better meals so… I ate it."

"Next time, just come find me," she smirked. "I'll make _sure_ you have _actual_ food."

He chuckled, "Considering this was at about one thirty in the morning by the time I got home from work, I don't think you wanted any visitors." She let her head fall a bit to the side and bounce in agreement, both looking back at the bell jingling and a couple stepping into the shop.

"Hello," Sonia cooed, watching Kyle stand and grab his bag to move towards the corner out of their way. "Can I help you?"

The woman nodded, silently clapping her hands together as her eyes scanned over the shop. "We're having a party, and we need some pairings."

Kyle couldn't help but roll his eyes, reaching into his pocket and snatching out his phone to scroll through Facebook. Last thing he needed to pay attention to was yet another ' _You can't have_ red _wine with fish, are you out of your mind?!'_ rant. Pairings were maybe the _one_ thing he didn't bring home with him from Italy, something that Bernocchi would flick his arm at for his insistence at snagging a glass of cabernet sauvignon with every single meal.

He was a man who knew what he liked, goddammit. And connoisseurs may turn up their noses at him for his personal preferences, but at the very least, he kept _up_ with what paired. Far too many of _those types_ came into his restaurant for him to not consider it necessary. Whatever made the sale, he supposed. Much as he hated the implications it placed over him, that he was one that stood in a room with other pinkies-up types and spat into buckets. That he made comments regarding _"Hmm I detect a hint of oak, perhaps apricots as well?"_ instead of merely hitting a winery and going " _Sicilian? Red? Mine_ ," and walking out.

The woman continued, "We're hosting a party for my husband's boss, and we've researched as much wine as we could afford to go pick up. We looked around online and-"

"Stop there," Sonia held up her hand, brow quirked. "Do not ask a computer, ask someone who _knows_. Now. What wines?"

The man stopped looking around the store aimlessly as his wife hit him with the back of her hand, snatching out a list with chicken scratch script from his jacket pocket and laying it beside the crostata container. Sonia adjusted her glasses, blinking slowly at the array before her. "Most of these are French wines. Are you wanting to only pair the Italian or what?"

"Don't you have French cheeses?" he winced, Kyle barely able to hold back a snort.

He glanced over to see Sonia's face dropping wryly, "Do I sound French to you? I can give you cheeses that work for all of them, but they're not _French_ cheeses."

The couple looked at each other, giving a shrug. "Just the Italian, then," the woman decided. "We'll hit one of the other stores for the others. We're looking for softer cheeses in particular. But not spreads."

"All right," Sonia nodded, Kyle shaking his head. Lost herself some sales with that one, but she wasn't about to 'mesh the cultures' as she liked to put it. Not without offering an out at least. "Kyle, come here," she called, beckoning him over with a wrinkled finger, still reading over the list. He blinked, looking between her and the couple eyeing him suspiciously and he sighed, shoving his phone back into his pocket and moseying towards her, stepping up beside the counter. She placed the list down and shrugged. "My eyes aren't doing so well here," she admitted sheepishly.

He shot her a kind smile before looking back down, clicking his tongue at the selection. "All right, looks like you're more into the reds, then?" he looked up at them with a raised brow.

The man nodded, "Personal preference."

"Well, I get that. But the problem is you have _light_ reds here," he winced. "A _Castel-Firmian_ isn't going to pair well with cheeses. And if you go darker, you're going to get away from pairing with soft cheeses. My advice here is you need to have a few whites if you want to stick to your plan. One of the stronger whites that are comparable _to_ a red, but give you the dryness to pair well. Or, if you go with darker, Sonia has a ton of harder cheeses that'd go great with them."

The woman scoffed, "You read that online?"

Sharp green eyes flickered towards her with a brutality she wasn't expecting, almost flinching. "No," he said quietly. "I didn't _'read it online'_."

She narrowed her eyes back, her husband clearing his throat and stepping a bit to the side, apparently more than aware of where this was headed. "Listen," she said, putting on a scathingly sweet tone. "We researched for _hours_. We know what we're doing."

Both Kyle and Sonia coughed to hold down a bout of laughter, quickly simmering and looking back at her straight-on. "Oh?" Sonia asked with a disarming grin. "And just where did you research?"

"Multiple sources," she said primly. "Talked to connoisseurs and everything."

"In an online chat," Kyle raised his brow, smirking at her sharp nod. "So. Whoever you talked to. They Italian? Or French? Or were you talkin' to Mark Smith from Iowa?"

She glared at him, "I didn't _ask_ for their genealogy. Are _you_ Italian?"

Sonia chuckled, settling herself in and watching Kyle not wavering in the slightest. "Nope," he popped his lips. "My family is pretty much just Polish and Russian if we go back." The woman stared at him with a waiting expression for him to defend his knowledgeability claims, Kyle just letting her lose her impatience bit by bit.

Sonia hit his arm, _"Lei è terribilmente testardo."_ she teased.

He glanced at her and smirked, reading the permission to proceed in her amused stare. She knew well enough that should he scare them off, he'd make up the difference for their purchase. A long-standing tradition whenever he happened to be around during shop hours. _"Sembra in questo modo. Ma lei non ha niente su di me."_ He turned back to the woman faltering in the slightest and offered a charming smile. " _My_ research was six months studying in Sicily under a top-line chef and owning an exclusively Italian restaurant of my own. So, I _think_ I have a _fairly_ good grasp on wines and cheeses. And if you'd like help, I'd be _more than glad_ to do so, provided you _believe me_ when I tell you that white wines are better for what you're wanting. If you'd like, I could hop onto the computer and shoot you an IM if that'd help you trust me."

She scoffed in indignation, turning to her husband with burning eyes and he sighed tiredly. "Hon, it's the only store for a good few miles. They know what they're doing."

She rolled her eyes, "Fine," she muttered. "Well just _what_ white wine do _you_ suggest?"

He gave her a casual shrug, glancing back at their list "Well, looks like the sparse ones you have here would work _okay_. But I think you'd do well with a bottle or two of _Bucci Verdicchio Classico dei Castelli di Jesi Riserva._ It'll match up with more medium cheeses."

"…A what," the man stared at him blankly.

"Delicious, that's all you need to know," Sonia said, leaning her cheek into a withered palm. "He's right. You can get much more out of that than… Oh dear lord does this say _Barefoot wine_?"

The woman shrugged, "Some people we know have only had the cheaper stuff."

"Tragic," Kyle shook his head, getting an agreeing nod out of her. He smirked, seeing his in with her slight concession. "But you know… You could just ditch the French and Sonia and I could stock you up," he suggested innocently, Sonia grinning and nodding along eagerly. "Get your stuff here, I can sell you some of my bottles from the restaurant at a bit of a discount, and it's right down the block. After all, who wants to go _all the way_ across the city for another cheese shop when you have the _best_ one right here?" he gestured around.

The woman eyed him warily, "Discount?"

"Well I _assume_ you'd be buying more than one, and we'd find a way to stick right within your budget with a _good_ selection. I don't stock up on _Yellow Tail,_ ma'am. And what kind of people would we be if we let you serve your boss _Sutter Home?_ We wouldn't be very good at our jobs allowing _that_ to happen. Coming here and not just going to a chain store deli is proof enough you want this to be authentic, why not go the full nine yards?"

The man looked at his wife with a shrug, "Save us a trip. Honestly, they're close enough, who cares?" Kyle and Sonia shared a scathing look before turning back towards them with bright eyes and customer service smiles.

She sighed, rubbing her temple with her middle and ring fingers, nodding in thought. "I have so much more to do for this stupid thing, so yeah. Skip the French, no one will know the difference. We just need to revamp the choices I guess."

Kyle offered a charming grin, "Well, I think we can help you with that." He snagged the open container from the counter and held it out to them with a sweet, beguiling tone. "Crostata?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations –
> 
> Lei è terribilmente testardo – She is terribly stubborn
> 
> Sembra in questo modo. Ma lei non ha niente su di me. – Seems that way. But she has nothing on me.
> 
> Also this chapter is dedicated to Stephen, my new friend from the wine site I went to that helped me with pairings. What a trooper. Thanks for reading and commenting!


	13. Fish Outta Newark

He hated the feel of latex on his hands. Latex only belonged on _one_ body part in his opinion. But, he knew it was a necessity; last thing he needed was to walk out onto the dining floor with shriveled fingers and bits of scraped-off _caponata_ wedged under his nails. Kept the skin from drying out, Kyle had advised him. Being soaked in dishwater for all but perhaps an hour's worth of his shift wouldn't treat the flesh well, being told with a snort to be thankful they provided the gloves, that Kyle's first dishwashing job hadn't been quite so kindly. But if there was anything that Kenny didn't enjoy, it was _unwanted_ restriction against his skin. Hiding in a hood was how he'd functioned in his youth, willing to shield any bit of himself from exposure to the elements and people alike. But as he'd aged, the cowl had come down, the mittens had been shed, a little more willing to be out in the world as he was meant to be.

How Illinois hadn't sent him on a straight line of regression back into the safety of coverings, he couldn't be entirely sure.

But it felt so _strange_ against his fingers, how they weighed down with the warmth of the faucet water and he always _felt_ like he was soaking. Or how he'd delve his hands just a _touch_ too deep into one of his pools and a trickle would leak into the glove, trapped rushing down its chosen victim phalange. Oil-sopped water was no friend of his, feeling so slimy and unpleasant he _envied_ those outside the kitchen, where the world was pristine and polished just for them. They should have tours, he thought. Tours for ungrateful customers to see just how diligently he worked, how he struggled when they decided to mutilate their fish skin and let the scales plaster themselves to the plate as they lingered in conversation. Or how they decided, in such a classed-up establishment, that the best thing to do was to shove their cloth napkin deep into their wine glasses under the false guise of _'well it makes the busser's job easier'_. Jason had patted his shoulder at his first full table of such _'generosity'_ , telling him that at least they remembered that he existed and had a lot to do. That was more than most would give him.

Good intentions didn't make doing the damn laundry any easier, though.

"K-Ken, I'm gonna need a new chef's knife here real soon!" Butters' voice broke through the clanging of the kitchen.

"On it!" he shouted back, immediately dropping his half-rinsed plate back into its sudsy grave and pivoting to maneuver to what he'd claimed as his chef's counter beside the dishwasher. Kyle had been _more_ than approving of his designated layout for his workstation, his three sinks on a constant string of layered efficiency to keep him from digging about for a much-needed line bowl under a chaotic tower of diners' plates.

Kenny's eyes scanned over the knives he'd put up out of the sink after nearly placing one into his bubbling basin on his first day had Kyle rushing over and gripping the handle around Kenny's fist, yanking him back in a panic. _"Never ever_ ever _put them in the wash sink if there's soap or other things in it,"_ he'd told him. _"We're on a timetable, I can't have you reaching in blind and mutilating your hand on the clock, all right?"_ Ken's hand drifted to the handle of a large blade resting atop a cleaver in a thin, hardly-soapy dish, eyes narrowing to make sure he didn't grab another damn serrated slicer like last time. He nodded to himself in brisk approval, snatching the thick blade from its confines and moving to dunk it in his first sink. He grabbed a dishcloth from the back counter behind the basin, smoothly moving to gently raise the knife back out of its brief soak and swipe the rag along the back, fingers barely curved to ride the very edges of his potential destruction.

His eye followed the silver as it became exposed, brow furrowing in the slightest as he scavenged about for remaining debris. A sliver of carrot caught his gaze, moving to let it slip through his cloth one more time and twisting it in the light before declaring it up to code. Tossing his rag back down, he sighed, running through quick dips between the rinse and sanitation sinks before setting the knife aside to air-dry in a small crate. He muttered quietly to himself, trying to recall any other requests before a quiet, high-pitched tone interrupted his thoughts.

Kenny's tongue clicked, twisting to maneuver to the other side of the dishwasher, ripping down the door and wincing at a blast of steam rushing towards his face. But, he supposed he couldn't complain about that one. He'd watched the chefs dancing with fire time and again, fascinated by how any of them still retained their eyebrows. Peeling off his bright latex prisons, his fingers twitched from pulling out the torrid rack. Blindly reaching behind him, he snagged a rolling cart and yanked it to his side, hurriedly unloading dishes, knowing that Nichole was going to need a new skillet here soon since she was running low on her rotation, and Kevin needed an entire new set of cutting boards after his dripping-salmon disaster.

A certain string of pride slid through him as he tore out the top tray loaded with utensils and Annie's measuring cups. Only day three and he just about had this _nailed_. Boning knives split between Kevin and Kashkov's stations, the stack of skillets with tarnished rings from smoked oil was for Nichole. Cookie sheets went along the top of the prep stations between the racks, stockpots and pans rested beside them in the open slots while spoons and pasta forks hung from the hooks above Bradley's station. Simple enough. This job wasn't _hard_ to understand and grab onto, it was merely a chaos that took some adjusting to. Kenny's tongue clicked as he stacked a pile of mixing bowls atop his cart, head shooting around with a hand on his shoulder and a kind smile greeting him.

He ran through his introductions he'd gotten the last few days with a wince, "...Larry?"

"Gary," he laughed, waving off his apologetic pout. "Twelve just left."

"Got it," he nodded, pivoting to grab a cream plastic tote with his 'nifty lil' spray bottle as he called it and a fresh rag from his rotating stack. Carefully, he leaned over to snag the handle of Butters' knife, directing the blade towards the floor angled away from his leg, less he get yet another wide-eyed stare of panic from any chefs managing to catch their breath. Tote tucked atop his hip, he effortlessly maneuvered himself across the floor, eyes sweeping across stations, making a mental note at the sight of slopped batter to make a stop at Annie's area upon his return. He swung by the pantry counter, blatantly laying the knife in Butters' sights and received with a brimming grin.

"Thanks, Kenny!" he said, Ken already on his way towards the door and not wanting to deal with Butters' enthusiastic praise of his damn cleanliness skills.

He got enough of that from Kyle.

He hit a stumbling stop right before the doorway, reaching up to his head and tearing off the baseball cap keeping his hair from going rogue on him. He glanced to the white fabric, smirking at the array of fabric Sharpie script along the cap he'd inherited after a thorough wash from the previous busboy, both Cubs and White Sox written and crossed out by various people with snide, tiny comments from pens comparing records. Shaking his head, he shoved it into his apron pocket. They were all wrong regardless. Rockies all the way.

Twisting, he opened the door into the short hallway with his shoulder and took a deep breath, once more astounded by the change in atmosphere. From the metallic clanging and aroma of the brick oven's fire into the subtle scents of olive oil and the general warmth of people. A quick pivot took him out of Red's way as she shot him a tired smile with two trays tucked under her arm. Kenny wondered if he'd even said two words to her, but he supposed it didn't matter. It'd happen eventually, he was doing good just to remember names at this point.

Slipping onto the floor, his eyes scanned about, counting clockwise from the front door around the room in a spiral. Keeping note of table numbers seemed to be his most difficult task, even with only twenty-two of them spread out. The only he could keep well in mind was nine, tucked against the back-right corner, their largest table reserved for their largest parties. He snapped his sight towards the bustling happenings of their current said party, sweeping down along the wall until finding the emptied table ready and waiting for him.

Tongue clicking and feet smoothly gliding him around the wider walkways, he shot anyone who happened to look his way a friendly smile before they would turn back to their companions. _"Even dishwashers have to be polite,"_ Bebe had told him. Worked for him. His tote seemed to be a decent enough indication to the public that he wasn't there to refill their drinks, able to actually _complete_ a task for once in his life instead of being interrupted every three seconds like he was in retail. Difficult to meet those corporate standards when he was pulled from building planograms nonstop.

Landing at twelve at last, he clacked his teeth, trying to find the delicate balance between quiet and hurried as he stacked plates and gathered silverware. He glanced at a half-filled glass of chardonnay and shook his head. How _anyone_ could spend money on overprized booze and _not_ finish it was beyond him. His parents had taught him _that_ lesson well if nothing else: Don't waste your alcohol or you're just bein' a snooty showoff.

He sighed, shoving a cloth napkin between the stems of the abandoned glasses and plates, trying to give them an edge of stability for the long trip back to the kitchen. Spray bottle in hand, he snatched his rag hanging off the edge of the tote, keeping his hand low and spraying into the fabric.

" _Don't spray the table unless it's like, empty in here,"_ Jason had warned him through his training. _"People bitch that the chemicals are getting all over their food. Idiots won't listen when you tell them it's safe and their food is_ plated _on the same damn chemicals."_

Kenny figured there was a certain level of irony in there that he really needed to get out of his mind, less he accidentally let loose a spritz that wafted onto someone's _cioppino_ and snap such a fact at whoever uttered a snide remark. He was pretty sure that was the last thing this place needed. Corporate could handle an attitude sneaking through. Privately owned? Probably not so much.

Crumbs were brushed into his precisely-angled tote, eyes sweeping about to catch the running of wet streaks in the dim lighting. Assured that he wiped every inch and the tabletop was clear of unwelcome elevations, he glanced over the booths for strays and nodded to himself. He gathered his haul once more and kept it steady under his arm against his torso as to not agitate the wine glasses. Conversations were mere buzzing in his ear as he continued on, running himself through his checklist once more and trying to prioritize who needed to come first.

Kevin, he decided. Cutting boards went like hotcakes, and Nichole _should_ still have about four skillets left in her arsenal for a good few minutes. At least he hoped so, time meshed pretty tightly once he crossed into his little cleanliness corner. He was curious as to whether it would stay like that or if eventually the days would drag, if he'd get so accustomed to the dance that each step would seem to take an eternity.

God, he hoped not.

Kenny hurried his way back down the short hall, snatching his cap back out of his apron as he peeked through the square window for anyone possibly in his path before busting back into frantic comforts. Hat snapping straight back onto his skull, he twisted to make way towards his station before a booming _"Avtobus,_ lunch eez done!" caught him by surprise.

The familiar word passing through the air made his head whirl to see Kashkov smirking and pointing at a plate resting under the heating lamps with his baby blue ticket clipped overhead. "Thanks," he nodded back with a grin, continuing on his way. He glanced at the clock reading 6:57, glad to be hitting a time to make this easier for everyone. His tote clacked as it hit his metal countertop, starting to scrape off plates and dump out glasses before someone tapped his arm.

He glanced up and back down to find Butters grinning at him, "I got it, go eat," he insisted.

Kenny narrowed his eyes skeptically, knowing he was talking to the slowest worker in the kitchen. "You're _sure_?"

"Yep, Heidi sent me," he pointed towards her taking over at his station. "We ain't too far behind and you haven't taken a breather yet. Go on," he waved him away from his work, stepping in his place.

Ken blinked, "Uh. Kay. Um, Kevin needs cutting boards and Nichole needs her skillets."

"Gotcha," he grinned in a way that was far too bright for Kenny to find anything less than unnerving before turning back to washing his hands and reaching for the gloves.

He shrugged to himself, making way back through past the prep counter to the runner's row. He carefully slid up beside Kashkov and grasped his plate, wincing. Kashkov snorted, "Eez hot, Avtobus."

"I noticed," he said dryly. "The hell does that mean anyway?"

He shrugged casually, "Busboy."

Kenny smirked, "You ain't very creative, are you?"

"Not here to be, here to follow Ryzhevolosyy's recipe."

He cocked his brow, "And _that_ means…?"

Kashkov grinned cheekily, "Eez my secret. Drives heem crazy. Keeps eet fun."

"He's gonna clock you eventually," he laughed, grabbing his ticket from its clamp.

"Has to reach me first."

Kenny cackled, both turning and going about their way. Ken stopped at the employee tickets, placing his down and grabbing the pen, writing _'S- 7:00, E- 7:30'_. He slid the paper into the small manila pocket for Kyle's nightly bookkeeping, once more removing his hat as he stepped back into the hallway and headed down the way. A hefty scent of garlic and oil seeped through his nostrils as his food caught the wind of his gait, salivating at a large chicken breast smothered in seasoning and seared from the grill in little tally marks. A heap of risotto rested to the side, Kenny already far more in love with this meal than he thought he should be. Three days of having it and he wouldn't mind coming back time and again until he could snatch himself up something a little pricier down the way.

He hit a hard left exiting the corridor, plopping down into one of the end two seats of the bar reserved for staff members. A slim, dark-haired man with tawny skin made his way towards him and Kenny smirked. "Just another Coke, Baahir," he said.

"Not very adventurous," he teased, handing him a roll of silverware before reaching under the counter for a glass and heading back towards his soda taps.

Kenny shrugged, swiping out his fork and pulling up a glob of his risotto. "I think me bein' adventurous at the bar wouldn't be good for my employment."

Baahir chuckled, nodding along. "Maybe not, good party story though, hm?"

"I got plenty of those. Grow up in a town with nothin' to do and all ya got are party stories," he said, shoving his fork into his mouth and chewing his way through tender grains of parmesan and herbs. He watched Baahir moving to get a new arrival's order and blindly sliding his Coke towards him. Kenny grabbed at it, taking a long sip through his straw, not realizing how damn thirsty he was until now. Shifting in his seat, he began moving to grab his phone hidden in his pocket before a long stream of cooled air flew over the back of his neck.

He twisted, blinking at the front door directly across the room from him standing opened, an older couple trying to get through and seeming to have trouble maneuvering through the heavy barrier. Kenny glanced around, seeing the wait staff all dealing with tables and smacked his lips, twisting off his seat and half-jogging his way towards the entrance. "Hey there," he greeted, awkwardly extending his arm out the door to prop it open and helping the man get his wife over the trim with a beaten-to-hell walker. "Sorry about that," he winced.

"Need a lighter door," the man said, voice gruff as he and his wife finally made their way to the front of the host podium.

Kenny blinked, not sure of how to respond to that. "Well… keeps the noise in here down. So you can eat in peace," he shrugged. "But again, sorry. You all right?"

"Fine," the woman nodded, leaning against her metal framing with a long sigh. "Bad enough there's no parking."

"Okay well, someone'll be with you real shortly," he promised, blowing by a problem he couldn't possibly fix for fear of a customer rampage. He glanced to his side, catching gazes with Bebe who nodded, assuring her table of her return and moving to make way towards them. "And here she comes," he gestured towards her. "Enjoy your meal," he smiled again, whirling on his heel and letting the expression drop.

God, he hated that. Hated how every problem in the world would smash onto the lowest of the low. Busboy or cashier, he guessed it didn't matter. People were always going to whine.

He came back to the bar with a sigh, moving to sit down before a hand tapped the surface in front of him for his attention, looking up to see Kyle looking at him with a tired smile. "Can you get your food and come with me to the office?" he asked.

Kenny's eyes widened. _What did he do?_

"Is… is everything okay?" he asked.

Kyle snorted, "You're not in trouble. Just c'mon, gotta talk to you about something." Kenny blinked, obediently gathering his dinnerware and glass, letting Kyle lead the way back into the kitchen. His mind was going a mile a minute, wondering if he'd messed up cleaning, if his sanitation sink's pH was off and he hadn't caught it, if someone had complained about his methods on the floor. He couldn't pinpoint anything for the life of him, and it was throwing him into a frenzy regardless of Kyle's promise. The office was never good. The office, regardless of the building, meant _serious_ talks. Lectures and warnings and pink slips, oh my.

He gulped, knowing none of the staff was paying them the slightest bit of attention as they made way to Kyle's hidey-hole, but _feeling_ like they were all stopped and staring at him in _judgement_. Kyle stepped aside and let Kenny into the room first, raising his brow at the hand holding his soda tremoring, jingling ice cubes within the glass.

"Kenny, you're _fine_ ," he promised, giving a small laugh of disbelief as he closed the door behind them, the chaos muffled as they seeped into confinement.

Ken looked at him with a wince. "You sure? I don't get called into an office 'less it's 'cause I fucked up."

Kyle motioned for him to sit down, Kenny doing as told and putting his food down as Kyle sat across from him. Kyle chewed his lip a bit, "Well… not so much fucked up. It's more… a warning."

"What did I do?!" he nearly flinched.

He stared at him for a moment and shook his head with a tiny laugh. "Man. You've had some _shit_ bosses over the years, haven't you?"

"Shit jobs, shit managers. Part of the deal," he mumbled, grabbing his plate for a distraction and stabbing at his food sheepishly.

He smiled, "Kenny. It's not a warning about your _job_ … sorta," he shrugged. "You won't get fired or anything, but you kinda just… did something you shouldn't've." Kenny finally looked at him and tilted his head and Kyle winced. "Helping those two at the door."

"…What?"

Kyle tongued over his lips, rapping one set of fingers against the other. "Listen: It's _fantastic_ that you took initiative like that, seriously. Any other time and that is the _greatest_ thing you can do."

Kenny cocked his brow. "So… what's wrong with this time?"

He shrugged, "You're off the clock. Technically, you _cannot_ work. Helping someone into the restaurant is work."

Kenny was nothing short of bewildered, fork stopped halfway through his chicken. "Wait, I don't get it."

"It's a liability thing," Kyle sighed, scratching through his hair. "Let's say… you helped them but you tripped one of them on accident and they got hurt. I can't help you if you're off the clock. Otherwise, we have insurance to handle that type of thing. But if you're not supposed to be working, they would go after _you_."

He blinked slowly, taking a bite of meat and chewing, mind whirring. "Come after me?"

"Sue you," he clarified. "Even if they lost, it'd just be messy. If you're working, then they have to sue the establishment for an accident, they can't just go for _you_."

Kenny couldn't help a small snort, "Wouldn't you rather keep the restaurant out of it?"

"Yeah, but I'm not a dick," he returned his expression. "Easier to handle a settlement than it is bad press from you going through some kind of lengthy trial and the battle of 'whose fault is it really'. Besides, when they were done with you, they'd probably come for me, too, saying I should have pillowed floors or something."

He sat back, tapping his tines against his chicken. "Would someone _really_ sue over that?"

Kyle smiled sadly, "You're not from the city, are you?"

Shaking his head, he took another bite of risotto. "Nah. From a small-ass mountain town in Colorado."

His face melted off his sympathy, branching into an 'ah-ha' expression that Ken couldn't help but grin back at. "I _figured_ you weren't from the goddamn Midwest."

"Howdya figure?"

He shrugged, "You don't have the… _mannerisms_ of these people," he waved towards the door, leaning back in his chair. "I didn't want to punch you in the face the minute I met you like I have just about everyone else. Even my best friend is from here, but I spent about two months after meeting him always ready to throw down."

Kenny nearly choked on his food through a laugh, covering his mouth with the back of his hand and looking at him. "I take it you're not from anywhere near Cornland either?"

Kyle shook his head, "Nah. New Jersey."

He cocked his head, "Why'd ya come out here then? Ain't there good schools out East?"

"All the good culinary schools in that area were in New York. Way too close to home. Jersey brings out the absolute worst in me," he rolled his eyes. "Probably would've lost my temper and beat someone with a panini maker. I only go back to visit my folks and even then, I keep it short. Spent one Chanukah there after acclimating to this place and I came back and got my ass kicked because I forgot how to shut my mouth again."

Ken sniggered, "Doesn't quite fit into the robots' lifestyle, huh?"

"Not in the least," he sighed tiredly. "But that's the thing. Did we have people suing each other back home? God yes, absolutely, all the time. But a _lot_ of shit we just screamed and fought it out and that was it. Here they're… _subtler_ ," his voice dropped a tad. "They'll shoot you a few scathing remarks but leave and you think it's over. Next thing you know there's a summons in your mailbox. _Especially_ in this area. About ninety-five percent of the people eating here aren't too poor for a good lawyer," he reminded him.

Kenny winced, "I uh… I guess I don't think about that. I mean, we just had brawls in parking lots back home, only a handful of court shit, though. Town was only about a ten-minute walk across, everyone knew everyone."

He nodded knowingly, "Didn't wanna risk reputations then?"

"More we were all poor white trash and couldn't afford reputations," he drawled, eyes rolling dramatically with a sip of soda.

Kyle hummed, looking down at his hands. "Probably better that way." He gave a little impish grin, "When I was a kid, _everyone_ knew me as the asshole that would bite if I got cornered in a fight." Kenny looked at him in surprise and he shrugged, "Always been small, man. You do what you have to. Moved here and it morphed into being 'that loudmouthed Jewish kid that keeps trying to take on former quarterbacks'. Kinda had to learn to shed that one pretty quick. At least the latter portion," he snorted at himself.

Kenny chuckled, taking another bite of food and nodding. "Explains some things."

"Oh?"

He grinned, "Chad told me you weren't from here. Somethin' about seein' how you 'can get' makes people appreciate people bein' so pussified around here."

Kyle's smile dropped bit by bit, clearing his throat and awkwardly rubbing at his head. "Yeah. He's not a fan of it. Sometimes I can't help it," he shrugged sheepishly. "I'm better than I was but still have my temper sometimes. It's just… It's a Jersey thing," he winced. "It never really leaves you. I just kind of… blank and forget I'm somewhere that isn't so used to that in public places."

"Hey, I ain't judgin'," he assured him, holding up his fork-wielding hand. "I'm sure eventually you'll get the full force of my accent swingin' back in and see my rednecky ways."

He cocked his brow, "You already _have_ a bit of an accent."

"You should see me with a Pabst in my hand. Just automatically makes me the worst of the worst. Sound like I just walked straight outta Nashville or some shit," he grinned cheekily, another mouthful of chicken sending a satisfied surge through his body, falling back relaxed in his chair with his conscious clear and a returning comfortable normality seeping through the room. "Okay also, this shit is fucking amazing," he pointed down to his food.

Kyle smirked, "So I see. You need a minute alone and a tissue there?"

Kenny snickered, giving him a one-shouldered shrug. "Don't you judge me, I ain't ever _had_ real Italian food before. Hell I've hardly had _good_ food before that ain't from a microwave. This is like, such gourmet shit, Man. You were goddamn _made_ to be makin' recipes."

He beamed warmly, cheeks tinging in the slightest before he glanced down at his plate and blinked, "That's just the garlic chicken. That's like… the _simplest_ thing on the menu."

Kenny pouted, "Well lemme get my paycheck first and I can afford the other stuff in a few weeks."

Kyle looked back up at him, baffled. "Uh, Ken? You don't pay for that."

A forkful of risotto paused halfway up and he returned the expression. "Wait, what?"

His lips curved back up, shaking his head. "You _work here_. You don't pay for food. Only if you get a steak or fish special, and that's still a seventy-five percent discount for you. Sorry, must not've covered that since we bypassed the interview."

Squinting, he glanced between his half-emptied plate and Kyle, blinking slowly. "I mean… figured I got like… twenty-five percent off a' everything or somethin'. Not uh… not _free_."

Kyle shrugged, "Most restaurants do that. Or have a little employee menu with the free shit. You guys are all busting your asses out there, least I can do is let you have lunch on me, Dude."

"Wait then why do you take our tickets?"

He cocked his brow, "Inventory and price adjustments? Still costs money, I have to account for it every night." He laughed softly at Kenny's shocked expression. "Retail sucks ass," he said. "They don't give you guys jack _shit_. Not here. I don't consider anyone expendable, have to keep you all at least _somewhat_ happy."

Kenny chomped down on another bite, the taste suddenly so much _more_ savory with the knowledge of keeping every penny of his pay. The words Kyle was speaking all made sense, but Kenny wondered if they'd ever been _used_ in that order by a manager before. Not in his line of work, that was for _damn_ sure. "Well. You're doin' a damn good job of it, then," he beamed, getting a mirroring expression and shaking his head. "Dunno how Chad isn't like, a thousand pounds by now."

Kyle shook his head, "I don't cook at home, Chad does. I only cook there for restaurant prep and holidays and even then, I whine about it. Last thing I want to do every night is come home and stand over another damn stove…" He rolled his eyes, "'Sides, Chad likes his food done… _Midwestern_ style. That ain't my thing."

He nodded, "Yeah, considering the diners 'round Joliet mostly just have sandwiches and fuckin' chicken fried steak, I can see how that'd be a problem."

A visible shudder ran down Kyle's spine, tongue sticking out slightly in disapproval. "God. At least in Chicago there's actual cultured cuisine here and there. I don't know how people out in the boonies fuckin' stand it."

"Same way I lived on Pop Tarts for twenty years: Ya get used to it," he shrugged. "Not all of us know how to cook more than mac n' cheese, ya deal with whatcha can get."

Kyle sighed through his nose, eyes drooping tiredly. "Some people don't even make it up to that stage. Least goddamn mac n' cheese has… ya know. Cheese."

"It binds us all," he grinned cheekily, Kyle giving a soft laugh and shaking his head. Kenny's eyes flickered up to the clock along the wall and his mouth twisted. "Shit. Sorry are we good here? My lunch is almost over."

Kyle nodded, "Yeah, but go ahead back to the bar, and take a few extra minutes, Dude. I kinda broke into your time a hell of a lot."

He shook his head, shoving in a last bite of poultry and waving his hand dismissively. "Nah, I'm full. 'Sides, Butters is at the sinks. I don't trust him not t' accidentally drown himself somehow."

"Good call," he concurred, leaning his cheek into his palm and glancing at his phone lying beside his computer as the screen lit up with a notification. Green eyes slid back to Kenny gathering up his dishware and he sighed. "We may be a little late getting out tonight. I gotta check some supplies for tomorrow's special."

"Not a prob," he assured him, standing from his seat and taking a sip of his Coke. "Take your sweet time, actually."

He smirked, "Because you're hourly?"

"Exactly," he winked. "I promise not t' do off the clock stuff no more. Seriously, sorry about that."

Kyle frowned a bit, face soft with understanding. "Dude. You didn't know. Nothing wrong with thinking positively about people's intentions, you need that in this city sometimes. Everyone's so damn suspicious of each other. Apparently Colorado at least breeds humanity."

He cocked an amused brow, "And Jersey breeds?"

"The _reasons_ people are suspicious of others."

Kenny sputtered with laughter, waving at him with two fingers leaving his glass and heading out the door. Kyle watched after him, rubbing at his eye tiredly and glancing at the clock. Seven-thirty and still way too damn much to do. A long sigh seeped out of him as the door clicked shut, turning to grab his phone and open to his messages.

**Chad G**   
_'Hey, I'm sure you're super busy but how do you get burn stains off a skillet? :/'_

His eyes widened, teeth gritting.

**Kyle B  
** _'You better be kidding. Did you seriously burn one of my skillets?'_

He watched the dancing bubble popping back onto the screen and bit his knuckle, eyes narrowing. Only _he_ was allowed to fuck up his cookware. Anyone else daring to commit such a dastardly deed was _not_ going to be living happily for a while. Stan had learned that lesson the hard way when he'd melted one of his silicone spatulas their junior year and Kyle blocked his girlfriend's phone number for a good month.

**Chad G  
** _'What? No! Angela burnt one at work, geez. I figured you'd know what to do. It's one of those shiny silver ones.'_

Kyle stared at the message before cringing at himself. Whoops. Definitely not earning brownie points here. But considering the haphazard way he _washed_ them, maybe believing such an atrocity wasn't far out of Chad's ballpark. He shook his head.

**Kyle B**   
_'It's called stainless steel for one. Boil vinegar and water, then put in a few teaspoons of baking soda and scour it off.'_

He leaned back in his chair, clicking his teeth as he opened an email from his wine distributer, groaning at the announcement of a delay in a couple of shipments yet again. One day he just needed to buy an entire vendor for himself so he could stop getting screwed over every week. He turned back at his phone catching his eye.

**Chad G**   
_'Did you get that off of google? That's what we found and I thought you'd have a better solution than that.'_

His nose scrunched in frustration, taking a long breath and forcing his thumbs to slowly make it to their targets less he send nothing but jumbled garbage.

**Kyle B** _**  
** _ _'Did I google it? Are you serious? You think I don't know how to clean cookware?'_

The response was almost immediate, Kyle biting on his cheek.

**Chad G  
** _'You know I didn't mean it like that. Sorry. I'll see you tonight.'_

Kyle just scoffed, tossing his cell screen-down onto the desk and pivoting to face his computer. He had damn customers and critics questioning his abilities enough, he didn't need to tack his damn _boyfriend_ onto the list. His eyes flickered to the taskbar, seeing the glowing 7:33 and groaning under his breath. What he wouldn't _give_ to find the next person to piss him off and brawl out the irritation in the alleyway.

He shook his head at himself, sinking with a tired sigh. It was this kind of shit that kept getting him in trouble. The _dumbest_ little things just setting him off left and right, no matter _how_ well he thought he'd trained himself down from it. He knew damn well Chad didn't mean it offensively, he never did. He was just _ineloquent_ in his meanings, missed the mark of their conversations more often than either of them cared to acknowledge or admit.

' _Maybe I need a counselor,'_ he thought, flipping through messages with blurred eyes before shaking his head again. No. He didn't need to sink to _that_. He had this under his control, he just needed to figure out how to take the higher road…

Kyle glanced to the door once again, biting his lip. He wondered how Kenny had managed it so easily, how the concept of something going wrong hadn't even _touched_ him. He needed to learn to be like that, to not immediately build his walls if someone said something that could be misconstrued in the slightest. It'd definitely make his life easier, he wasn't stupid enough to believe otherwise. He'd stop getting into fights and getting his feelings hurt and _scaring_ people when he finally snapped.

A long sigh lifted a portion of his bangs, letting the curls flop listlessly back on his forehead. Maybe one day. But today, he had a long night ahead of him, had an impending wine shortage he'd need to sort out, and needed to get home and make damn sure his skillets were truly okay.


	14. Open your Mouth Before your Mind

When he'd come home from his studies abroad, Kyle had been what his friends could only describe as _hopelessly enamored_. The world had shifted, and no longer was Kyle touting the good ol' red, white, and blue. No, instead, for months he found himself completely drowning in the culture of red, white, and green. It suited him better, he'd believed. He'd barely managed yet another loan approval to afford a local Italian tutor, spending his nights fighting with balancing his job, his culinary coursework, and managing to finish those damn personal essays his instructor was so fond of emphasizing.

It had run him absolutely ragged, Stan more often than not coming home after his own shifts to find him passed out on his notebooks with recipes and vocab index cards scattered on the floor with ink smears on his cheek. Worth it, Kyle had claimed night after night, letting it become a mantra when his brain seemed ready to burst with the plethora of information he was forcing it to take in. Besides, he'd told Stan, the tutoring wasn't _too_ bad. He was just adding on to what he knew from his immersion. He knew the basics already, his greetings and farewells, how to find the damn bathroom, and how to ask a fellow kitchen bitch to please not splash him with dirtied dishwater. Those were what mattered. All else was just extra.

And that extra kept expanding, leaking into his personal life more often than he would've thought could happen on his own accord. Soon, most media he began to hover towards had to be found at specialty bookshops or online DVD auctions. Stan would sit with him, watching fast lip movement and pretty colors, occasionally whining that Kyle refused to turn on subtitles so he knew what the hell was even happening on their television.

His boyfriend at the time, David, had found it endearing. They would talk back and forth to one another in Italian and Spanish, coo sweet foreign nothings into one another's ear, knowing well enough that the other was throwing in random shit that could probably be equated to 'I left the milk out for too long'. But that didn't matter to them, what mattered was how smoothly the words flowed from the other's tongue and how voices would dip into gravels. What mattered was how those exchanges would always lead to a bedroom, and how _"I love you"_ was close enough between the barrier that it was the only translation that mattered.

But that had come with its own set of consequences. David had a habit when he was angry at Kyle to mutter and rant to himself in Spanish to offset the risk of upsetting him and his short temper. It'd always been the one thing about him that _infuriated_ Kyle, so he'd found his retaliation to fall back on aside from just his Jersey-bred harping. Soon enough he began mimicking David's behavior, his petty self standing smug knowing the irritable scowl on David's face no doubt matched his own that he'd shown over the eight months they'd been together. And as Kyle's lessons marched on, his vocabulary did, too. His self-contained rants flooded from mere fragmented statements to entire paragraphs lamenting everything wrong in their relationship.

Their audibly silent war grew and grew, both finding themselves lost in the heat of the moment in half-hour long monologues that the other could barely pick out bits and pieces of. It happened quicker than either of them cared to admit, but they found themselves _hating_ the words that they'd once found so charming. Soon the slightest inflection in a phrase made them cringe and tense, waiting to begin the battle of wits. It devolved into a competition, which one of them could out-mutter the other until one finally gave up and bitched in English before leaving. At least until the last one, where it resulted in David grumbling about Kyle ignoring him for nearly a week when planning his restaurant's menu, and Kyle picking up _just_ enough to know what was being thrown at him.

It'd launched into a full-on screeching match over Kyle's dream taking priority over their relationship, over each other's stubbornness and avoidance. David had finally been the one after three hours of yelling to relent, giving Kyle back the Amalfi lemon tart he'd made him as an apology and telling him to leave. Kyle still regretted all those years later not taking it home and shoveling it in his face as opposed to slamming it into David's before walking away for good.

But as much trouble as it had caused him, Kyle still couldn't shed that habit. He'd managed over the years to convince himself that it was just practice, was just keeping himself situated in the language so he didn't "waste all that money" on his lessons. But, he knew subconsciously that he damn well knew that wasn't his reasoning. It was because David was right. So long as it's not _overdone_ , he can pass it off as a quirk and nothing more. It wasn't him being petty or _show-offy_ , it was just conflict avoidance, a concept that had evaded Kyle for the entirety of his life until that lovely happenstance waltzed into his sights.

But oh, how he _wanted_ to snap into English for the half-assed backrub Chad was attempting.

Instead, he looked closer at his book, eyes half-focused on the words of _Il Gattopardo_ while the television blasted a chorus of gunfire and angry men screaming, his own lips moving inaudibly at a thumb pressing far too lightly against his shoulder blade. Kyle never could understand Chad's fascination with his damn "heroic" action movies. It couldn't be for the plots or the dialogue, it definitely couldn't be for the _acting_. For the longest time, Kyle just assumed Chad had a thing for muscle-bound men and their testosterone-fueled pecs. But after seeing many a gymrat in the city together and Kyle commenting on them, he'd watch Chad's face screw up in consideration before shaking his head in distaste. Kyle could only guess after that Chad found himself looking at scrawny men only, more than explained his attraction to Kyle himself.

Maybe it was just the _predictability_ , Kyle reasoned. There were little if any plot twists to be found in the genre. The movie was telegraphed from the get-go, required little more than shutting one's brain off and just watching the flashing lights. Bad guy plots. Good guy gets involved. Witty banter. Curse word. Gunfire. Oh look, big boobs thank god. Car chase. Big boobs kidnapped. Situation looks hopeless for .5 seconds. Good guy comes out swinging with motivational speech. There's a helicopter for some reason. Whoops it crashed. Curse word. Threaten henchman for information. Shoot his face. Stand silhouetted with gun in front of the fortress for the poster. Expendable henchmen litter the floor. Quote for the merchandise. Explosion. Bad guy curses the sky and is hauled away or killed. Make that last curse word count so we can keep it PG13. Good guy still good. Big boobs thanks him with her boobs. Sequel baiting. The end.

' _Shoulda been a film major,'_ Kyle scoffs to himself, finally managing to focus enough to finish a paragraph and turn his page. Days off with Chad were always like this, and Kyle was consistently torn on scheduling his days off to match Chad's own or avoiding that completely. He loathed being alone in utter silence, always finding himself leaving the apartment and planting himself in a store so he could hear other people talking or going to Stan's shop to bug him for a few hours and pass time. Silence just made him worry, made him linger on the restaurant and if all the orders were coming out correctly, if the vendors had delivered produce up to his standards or not. He'd find himself staring at Chad's seat in the kitchen, blank-faced and tired.

He never realized until he moved how much he relied on other people just _being there_. Living life with his family and a slew of shitty boyfriends back home hadn't quite opened him to the concept of isolation. It terrified him. It was why he'd worked overtime before he made any friends in Chicago, it was why he refused to go more than a month without dating someone before falling back on Craigslist for a hook-up knowing well enough he was going to possibly be murdered.

Kyle felt an affectionate hand glide across his spine and he sighed. It was a question he wondered throughout every relationship he had: If he hadn't been in a slump, would he have even _met_ Chad at all? He'd only gone into Harbucks because Stan was busy fucking Wendy and the restaurant had closed relatively on-time for once. But he'd been miserable, watching his closing staff leave and head off to their lives and Kyle knew he just had a date with a Big Mac and porn. A coffee had been nothing more than a hopeful pick-me-up, and the man behind the counter was at least a friendly face.

What he hadn't expected was sitting down and his drink being hand-delivered with a sympathetic smile and a _"You look pretty down."_ Kyle still didn't know what had happened, but he ended up spending the rest of Chad's shift with him, both telling stories about their worst customers and poking fun at the people that Chad had to pause the conversation to take care of. He'd seemed so _interested_ in Kyle's life, seemed so damn impressed at what he did, insisting he himself could never handle so much responsibility on his shoulders and how _awesome_ it was that Kyle managed to do so. Kyle had been flattered, something he so rarely got in his line of work to his face. It'd hit closing time before they knew it, Chad letting him stay in shop while he cleaned and walking together out of the building.

Kyle had barely even comprehended himself working up a shot in the dark question of wanting to hit a movie later that week before it'd happened. He'd only taken total notice when Chad had smiled and told him how he was glad he hadn't read Kyle's attention wrong and giving him his number.

It'd all seemed so nicely laid out, the universe coming out on Kyle's side when he'd needed it the most. It seemed at the time like it was _meant to be_ , like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Unlike this _goddamn back rub_.

Oh well, he reminded himself, inner voice going stern. He was probably just as shitty at them when he tried giving Chad one on his bad days. The effort was what counted here, as well as the constant strand of doting pats he threw into the mix. Expecting more was probably just _selfish_. Besides, it was so warm sitting between his legs and flush against his chest. Their cheap couch didn't seem so uncomfortable this way, and the aroma of Chad's cologne had become an acquired taste of his. It smelled heavy and weighed Kyle down with a sense of comfort, the knowledge that there was someone else here and little else mattered in his world on days like this.

"Hey, question," Chad finally spoke with a lull in the action before him.

"Hm?"

Kyle glanced up as a chin landed on his head, pushing his bangs down towards his eyes. He blinked rapidly, trying to get stray follicles and their itchy tendencies out of his sight. "How much vacation do you have next year?"

His stomach lurched. Not _yet_. He didn't _want this conversation yet_. "Uh, a little over a week… why?"

Chad shrugged, leaning back further into the arm of the couch. "Well, I was thinkin' about it today after I called my mom. Maybe wanna… go meet them next summer? Spend a week out there?"

The idea was nauseating. A _week_ in goddamn _Kokomo_. He only knew what Chad had told him about it, but it seemed awful. It sounded like one of those cities that didn't know whether it wanted to be bustling with constant activity or silently homegrown. They were the worst kinds of towns, where there were things to do but they were twenty minutes away, but it wasn't quiet enough to consider it a getaway. The population would be high and the entertainment value would be low. He couldn't imagine a week spent with the _Gordons_ to be anything less than mind-numbing from the stories he'd heard.

"Why uh… why can't they come here?" he tried, casually flipping another page without reading a word.

He snorted, "My mom doesn't want to 'get shot', as she claims."

"You told her that won't happen up here, right?"

"You know how moms get," he shrugged again. "They really want to meet you, though. It's been over two years, I don't think that's unreasonable."

Green eyes slowly slipped closed. Well. He wasn't _wrong_. But he just _knew_ that Chad's family wasn't one that he would fit in with. His mom and dad both just seemed ridiculously _blasé_ in the few instances he'd talked to them. Very quiet and very ordinary. His brothers didn't seem much better off, the older apparently more focused on keeping a wife than anything else and the younger nothing more than a UPS delivery man with far too much time on his hands that he did fuck-all with. They all stayed in Kokomo, apparently _content_ with living their lives among the corn.

Kyle thought of his own family, his ridiculously shrill and opinionated mother, his father with the strange fascination for ruining people's days online between cases, and his little brother muddled with being a genius with an Oxycodone addiction and a string of girlfriends so long he couldn't even keep track of them anymore. Kyle's mouth twisted. God, maybe he was the _tame one_ in his family. But even then, by Chad's mild-mannered standards, Kyle may as well have been a lion to the lambs. He was loud, he didn't like to _sugarcoat_ when it wasn't an absolute necessity for his home staying stable. He didn't want to go to this home and eat boiled chicken and not have the excuse of being so tired from work he couldn't eat. This just seemed a dangerous notion… And he'd been planning his vacation, too. He just hadn't figured out how to _tell Chad yet_.

Better to rip off the Band-aid all at once, he supposed.

Kyle cleared his throat, slowly closing his book and shifting back against Chad. "Um, I-I don't know how well I'd do in Indiana for a week, Chad."

"I know it's a little slower than you're used to," he said, "but if we plan it out right, we could get there in time for 4H or something."

He squinted, "4H?"

"Yeah you know, the fair." Kyle rolled his eyes. Only good thing about fairs was the funnel cake, and he doubted Chad would let him get one of those without a side-eye. "There's things to do, we just gotta go find 'em."

Kyle readjusted, sitting up off of him and swiveling forward, their legs lazily hooking together. "I kinda… had a plan for my vacation time already," he admitted, fingernail flicking the pages of his book.

Chad tilted his head, "Really? Where do you wanna go?"

He cleared his throat, eyes dropping to his fiddling hands. "…Vermont."

"…Why?"

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I kinda… wanna… take a test."

A stifled, disbelieving laugh slipped through his nose. "What?"

Finally, Kyle gathered the courage to look and meet his dark, warm stare, Chad's smile faltering at the seriousness of his expression. "I want to take the Master Chef exam."

"Okay…" he drawled, letting the suddenness of such an ambition settle. "What's that exactly?"

Kyle bent forward, putting his book on the coffee table and looking back at him. "It's an eight-day test. I'd be in Vermont showing that I know what I'm doing in a damn kitchen and get a certification."

"You have one," he blinked.

A head shake, "No. I have the _Executive._ I want the Master."

"Why?"

Kyle frowned. "Because who _doesn't_ want to be able to say they're a _master_ in their craft? I've wanted to do this since I was fourteen and decided what I wanted to do with my life. It's… it's my final step," he winced.

Chad smacked his lips in thought, sitting himself up straighter and bumping Kyle's leg with his own. "You're not even thirty."

"So?"

"So why do you want to hit the peak so early?"

Kyle shrugged, "Well, I'm kinda hittin' my end on my requirements before I need to retake a shitload of courses to qualify to take it. I have to do them anyway for the restaurant, but I'd rather space out the expenses."

Chad bit his tongue, nodding slowly. "So… why didn't you say something earlier?"

"I just got my recommendation letters about a month ago," he said softly. "I've been so swamped I haven't had time to really… figure out how to bring it up. Because, like I said, it's eight days and it's pretty… pricey."

"How pricey?"

Kyle gulped, pressing his fingertips together and dropping his gaze. "Um, $4000… before hotel and travel costs?"

Chad stared, eyes wide with disbelief. "Four grand."

"Yeah?" he winced. "I know, I know, it's a _lot_ but-"

" _Before_ the cost of a hotel? That's probably 1600 at least for eight nights, Kyle! Then God only knows how much for the plane tick-"

"I know!" he held up his hands in defense, eyes shutting. "Listen I _know_ it's a lot but that's because it's _such_ a big deal! I mean, this is _everything_ that I know being thrown onto a judge's table! I just… I just _really_ want this, Chad."

He hesitated, taking a long breath and shaking his head. "Kind of wish you'd said something sooner, Kyle."

Kyle looked up with a puppy-dog expression. "I know. I'm sorry. I-I just… I didn't know how you'd take it."

Chad twisted his mouth, looking at the screen still blaring with life and taking a long breath. Probably should've left the vacation angle alone for the night. He couldn't exactly say he _expected_ this kind of response, though. "Sorry I freaked out a little there," he finally let out, not willing to keep fighting. "Can we let it sit a little while longer before you enter or whatever? Is there time?"

He nodded, "Yeah. Yeah there's plenty of time to think it through. I wasn't going to sign up without telling you," he promised. "I-I have a savings plan worked out if I go, though."

"All right, all right, I trust you," he said, head tiredly flopping back and looking towards the television. Just no energy left for this, not for something Kyle seemed so emotionally invested in. Longer it could wait, the better.

Kyle looked at him for a long time, feeling guilt-ridden and miserable. He'd wanted to approach this on his own terms, didn't want to put Chad on the damn spot with so much information at once. The worn glimmer to brown eyes told him enough of how _badly_ he'd just fucked up. _'I gotta fix this,'_ he told himself. Last thing he needed was an unhappy home. He bit his lip, moving to lean over and tap Chad's cheek for attention. He turned and Kyle pressed their lips together immediately. Pulling away, he whispered under the commotion of gunfire, "Seriously. I'm really sorry."

Chad finally gave him a small grin and a brisk kiss back. "Don't be. I'm the one that brought it up, not you."

"Are we okay?"

He snorted, moving and running his hand up into Kyle's hair. "We're fine," he promised, pecking his cheek.

Kyle sighed with relief, moving to take his lips again and humming. This could all come up another day. For now, this was fine. _They_ were fine. "I can make us better than that, though," he purred, a hand running down and planting against Chad's jeans.

Chad grinned, shaking his head. "You don't need to do a thing, Kyle."

"I wanna though," he said through a teasing whine, his teeth lightly snagging his bottom lip as fingers played familiarly to undo Chad's jeans. "Want me to?"

"Well… I won't _argue_ ," he laughed, watching with a smile as Kyle scooted himself down onto the couch, pushing his leg further against the back to grant him more room.

Kyle's chest untwisted at once feeling him watching as he lifted his hips for Kyle to maneuver his pants and underwear down. Good. Chad's _good_ attention. That's what they needed right now. Just both of them relaxed and doing what felt more than natural as Kyle's hand draped around a stiffening cock. He sighed, feeling his breath bouncing off the skin and he grinned lazily, sliding forward to wrap his lips around him.

Chad grunted, a soft hand falling into his hair as a tongue began its dance, a shudder rolling down his spine as it circled the head. Cheeks began to hollow and Kyle's mouth salivated, easily riding through the motion as he let lifted his head and let gravity bring him back down. Green eyes flickered up, seeing Chad's own closed with a long, content breath stretching his lungs. Kyle's attention remained focused on his face, letting a showy moan rip through his vocal cords and feeling Chad's thigh vibrate with the sensation, lashes staying closed.

A small huff broke out of Kyle's nose, his left hand drifting up to wrap the base and pump, finally giving up and letting his sight drop down to the risen hem of Chad's royal blue t-shirt. Falling into a simple rhythm, feeling Chad's fingers just barely grazing the surface of his scalp, the relief settled at once.

That was a close one.

He'd been prepping for _months_ about how to breech the subject, knew that it was going to be a situation that needed calculated from his approach all the way down to inflection. He had a stack of notecards shoved in his office from random quotes he thought of during his working hours to integrate into his opening statement, had a mental list of rebuttals long enough to make a high school debate team sick with envy.

But they'd all disappeared as soon as that _look_ hit his eye. That damn look of _betrayal_ that Chad was all but an expert at.

Kyle was more than sure he didn't mean it to look so damn heart-wrenching, that he wasn't _trying_ to portray a statement of _'your dreams aren't more important than our bills'_. It was a look that had always baffled Kyle, having seen it on any of their deliberations from situations as life-changing as this to when he couldn't find a coupon for his damn faux-milk. He always just seemed so _helpless_ , a child throwing on a pathetic pout when denied one more cookie. But they meant to, kids were programmed to guilt their way into victory. Kyle just wasn't sure if Chad was eternally stuck in the same mindset, or if he just was unaware of his doing so.

' _His mother,'_ he decided, almost shaking his head at himself before redirecting his frustration into a series of firmer sucks. It was habitual anymore, Kyle finding any fault and immediately blaming a woman he'd never even met. He could only figure that was about as unfair as anyone could be. But, he figured, his _own_ awful habits stemmed from his mother's influence, who was to say Chad was any different? Maybe he was raised in a home where that damn puppy face got his way every time, while Kyle was raised to believe that you had to _scream_ for your opinion to mean a damn to anyone. Made sense, Chad was too passive to do more than win via sympathy or calmly talking through a situation, usually a combination of the two.

' _He's not winning this one,'_ he promised himself, looking back at Chad's face, the biting of his lip and the slight crease in his brow. He threw in another moan, bumping his head up to meet Chad's appreciative fingers. Kyle was fine with discussing the situation set before them, once he had the damn time to gather his arguments at the very least. Chad could make all the disputes he wanted or just do his quiet, disapproving agreement as he tended to do. It didn't matter. What mattered was the result was always going to be the same: Kyle was _doing this_. No amount of feeling guilty was going to pull him back, not from his goddamn dreams. He'd been dumped three times because of his restaurant taking priority in his life, and if he had to get dumped to take an exam, he'd cross that bridge and jump off when he came to it. But before he jumped, he was gonna make _goddamn sure_ his obituary called him a goddamn _master chef_.

" _Shit_ ," Chad breathed out softly, the pads of his fingers firmly pressed into Kyle's skull.

He let out a deep, hungry sound, hand quickening and mouth sloppily displaying its path as he slid along his shaft. If he'd learned anything in his time dating, it was that blowjobs solved _everything_. A dirty tactic, almost _unfair_ , sure. But he knew that barring full-on brawls, not a single boyfriend had denied him the opportunity to _change the subject_ yet. He had a magic mouth, David had told him after one of their calmer quarrels and Kyle's decided solution. The taste of a chef, passion of a politician, language of a romantic, kiss of a first love, and the blowjob of a pricey whore.

Kyle knew that shouldn't have been as complimentary as it felt, but until it was disputed, he was gonna goddamn run with it.

Chad's breath quickened, Kyle giving him a sly _'mm-hmm?'_ and his free hand moving to slide seductively along his thigh. A quick few hiccups of breath barely breeched under the sound of yelling on the screen beside them, the world all but silent for them as Chad gritted his teeth. Kyle waited patiently, still moving before a particularly rapid set of gasps propelled him down, hand speeding and waiting. His eyes watered, tongue flattened, his breath held as hips arched against him. His brow scrunched, trying to keep a choke down as come flooded his mouth and down his throat. Fingers gripping tighter onto Chad's thigh, he hummed, bobbing his head time and again to keep Chad going. The hand in his hair gave a subtle push and he stopped, tightening his lips and sliding back up the length of his cock. He swallowed with a satisfied sigh, tongue darting for missed strands of come along Chad's skin.

Kyle glanced back up, seeing Chad looking at him with a lopsided grin, the one that made Kyle's stomach twist with nerves and brought a shy smile to his own face. He loved that face, the one that told him how happy he could make Chad, how calm their lives could be in little moments like this. The one where Chad was looking at him with such intense adoration it sent him into a tizzy, reminded him why staving through could be so worth it.

He grinned wider, releasing his cock and propping himself up onto his knees, hands moving to rest on the back of the couch and the armrest behind Chad's back. He wiggled a bit, eyebrow slowly raising. "All better?" he purred.

"So much better," he laughed, lightly bopping him on the nose.

Kyle made a pleased sound, grasping Chad's chin with his right hand and tilting him up, pressing their lips together. He tried pushing his tongue into his mouth, stopped by lips sealed tight and feeling a slight scrunch on Chad's face. He frowned, backing up and looking at his pursed expression with a pout. "C'mon. Kiss me."

Chad hesitated, "It's just…"

The frown deepened. "You _have got to be_ kidding. It's _your_ jizz, fucking kiss me!"

"It's… weird…"

Kyle sat back, mouth twisted. "You've had _my_ spunk in your mouth before."

"That's different. Kyle, you know it just… wigs me out," he winced. "I'm sorry, I just-"

Kyle held up his hand, shaking his head. "No, no. I know. I've known this. Sorry, I don't wanna make you do something you don't wanna do."

Chad sighed, rubbing his temple before moving to put himself back into his jeans. "It's not you, it's me?" he tried.

He glanced at him, unable to help a small huff of a laugh at the pathetic look on his face before taking a deep breath. "I'm gonna brush my teeth," he informed him. "Can I kiss you then?"

"As long as you want," he promised, moving up a bit and turning Kyle's head to the side, kissing his cheek instead. "Hold you over?"

"I guess," he smirked, moving and getting onto his feet, feeling Chad watching him move.

As soon as his face was safely out of sight, his frown came back full force, shoulders slumping. He wasn't being fair, Chad didn't like something it wasn't exactly the end of the damn world. And it's not like this was a _surprise_ he sprung on him, he'd known since giving him the very first one that Chad wasn't a fan of the good ol' return to sender.

But still, talk about a mood killer.

He stepped into the bathroom and turned on the light, wincing at the reflection of the pristine white tile surrounding him. He glanced down at the noticeable bulge in his jeans and shook his head at himself. Okay. Maybe not a mood _killer_.

He hesitated for a moment, considering his options before rolling his eyes. What options? It was himself or nothin'. Always had been, Chad was never a huge fan of getting off and then helping him along, finding himself "too worn out" or some other notion Kyle couldn't wrap his brain around. Whatever, he decided with a tired sigh, shutting the door and flipping on the vent to drown out the muffled noise of car screeches and Big Boobs yelling for help. Girl sounds were not gonna help him here.

Kyle moved to sit on the closed toilet seat, reaching behind a haphazardly placed display of candles on the tank his mother had bought when she decided to help him 'look like someone lived here'. He snatched a bottle of lube he had stashed away for these occasions, when Chad wasn't in the mood and didn't exactly feel like spending ten minutes watching him jerking off. He just sighed, moving and undoing his pants, making a soft sound as his cock practically jumped at the opportunity of touch.

"Not the same, but good enough," he mumbled, popping the cap and dousing his hand. He tossed the bottle back somewhat into place, leaning back and staring up at the ceiling. He gripped around himself with a quiet moan, shoulders sinking and a sigh escaping his lips. His eyes closed, tasting the remnants of Chad on his tongue, a rumble rolling through his throat.

God what he wouldn't _give_ for Chad to just come bursting through that door. Come through and apologize, tell him he'll kiss him no matter what…

His teeth latched onto his lower lip, chest expanding with a shaky breath. He'd get an eager tongue down his throat, Chad could nearly choke him with how much he demanded to steal every ounce of Kyle's air. He'd make sure _nothing_ was only Kyle's anymore. No, no, he'd want every piece of him for himself. He wouldn't wait for an okay, he'd just push Kyle down, make him bend over the sink, wouldn't let him raise his head from the basin. He'd rip down his jeans and boxers, he'd grab Kyle's ass, tell him it belonged to _him_.

Kyle grinned, heart racing at the mere _notion_ of Chad being so ready to make him his own, his voice dropping into that low gravel that stirred Kyle's pot like no other when he woke from a deep sleep.

Chad would tell him to stop trying to struggle his way up, not to look at him, to know he was only there for _his_ pleasure. That he would only get satisfaction for himself if he _behaved_. Maybe a few slaps, just enough for Kyle to gasp and flinch, _just_ enough for little red marks on his skin. Chad would demand he _beg for it_ , that he wanted to _hear_ that Kyle so wanted his cock. Kyle knows himself, knows he would play the stubborn game longer, get more slaps, get more frustration, get more degrading words hissed at him. But then, eventually, he wouldn't be able to take it anymore, would plead to be taken.

And god, would Chad do so.

Kyle's hand quickened, his cock leaking and body quivering, his imagination out of control with sounds and smells and _feeling_.

Minimal prep and no pauses, he'd just dive right in. Kyle wouldn't feel or hear a damn thing but _cock_ ; he'd feel used, like nothing more than a _toy_ for someone with an insatiable appetite. But fuck, would he love it. He'd love to be the object of pleasure, the only thing to possibly quell such a raging lust. Nothing else would do, no amount of porn or imagination could satisfy like he could. And he'd be told that, time and again. That he's just there for _Chad_ , he only exists for _him to use_.

Kyle whimpered, jaw quaking and breathing going incredibly tight. His free hand grasped around, searching for the paper holder by the tub and snatching off a good few squares, mind never drifting from the fabulous painting it was drafting as fast as it could.

His hips would leave bruises on Kyle's ass, Kyle would be unhindered, would be allowed to _scream_. His voice would echo into the porcelain, Chad's hand would be tight in his hair, holding him down and tearing at the roots. God maybe Kyle would be crying it felt so fucking _good_ , just too much pain and pleasure to handle, his mind would be absolutely fried as he was stretched, as he was fucked into utter submission.

Chad would lean down, never slowing, whisper cruel things against his neck. He'd bite and suck, he'd leave his mark. He'd call him a slut, _his_ slut. And Kyle would agree, he'd nod and cry and beg him for even more. Chad would make sure to give him just that, to make sure that Kyle wouldn't be able to walk for a good hour, only able to sit there and wait for Chad to clean himself up just so he could be used again at his command.

Kyle moaned, head falling further back and nearly knocking a candle off its base.

_God_ , he wanted that, wanted it more than anything. Wanted to be nothing but the _only_ thing on Chad's mind, to hear him grunt and growl and order. He'd demand Kyle not come until permitted, until the mirror above his head was rattling with his desperate pleas to be allowed. Only when he saw that would he touch his cock. The sensations would be too much, Kyle's only jobs dwindled down to keeping his head down, holding his shaking legs steady, being nothing but a body invaded with pure, _hot_ skin.

"Oh _fuck_!" he yelped quietly, eyes scrunched and hips arching, free hand immediately moving to catch his spillage, jaw dropping open with loud gasps. Kyle whimpered, hips jerking as he finished, a rolling shiver of pleasure ripping through his body. He nearly sobbed, brought to his end so fucking quickly with such a simple imagining. He was overwhelmed, specks of color flittering behind closed eyelids.

He groaned, slumping further and nearly off the edge of the seat, his moistened hand dropping from his spent dick and his paper-holding fingers cramped. A gulp rolled down his throat, eyes creaking open at last to the brightness of the bathroom and the sound of the vent. He sniffled, body tremoring as he lazily tossed his caught spunk into the wastebasket to his side.

Just once he'd like that fantasy to come true. Just _once_. He thought of Chad sitting on the couch, waiting for him with that patient smile, tasting the come more prevalent than ever on his tastebuds. One day, he told himself, as he had been for too long to remember. One day, Chad wouldn't be able to help himself. He'd be so _starved_ that he'd look at Kyle like his last meal, he'd be unable to stop touching him, wanting more and _more_.

Kyle sighed, looking at the glistening lube on his hand and getting onto his shaking legs as he tucked himself back into his jeans, moving to the sink to wash off the greasy evidence. Maybe after eight days of separation he would react so viciously, Kyle reasoned, rinsing soap suds off his palms and scrubbing between his fingers. Maybe that's what they needed: Separate vacations. Kyle would go to Vermont, Chad could go to Indiana. They could find themselves in a short span of time, realize how much they _missed_ the other. Then they could come home, and absolutely _ravish_ one another for a good two full days until they were unable to walk, just spend a weekend wrapped up in one another.

A small, sad smile crossed his face. It was a lovely thought, maybe even possible. But Kyle wasn't much of a betting man when it came to his personal life.

He glanced at his toothbrush and sighed, grabbing it and staring for a moment at the alternating colors within the bristles. He shook his head, holding it under water and bringing it back to the mouth of his toothpaste, watching at a long seafoam green strip making its way onto the brush. He glanced up for the first time at the mirror, sinking at the longing in his expression, the exhaustion in his eyes. With a deep breath, he raised up his brush and plastered it against his teeth, taking away the taste of Chad in a mere minty instance.

_One day._


	15. Sit in Judgement, but at Least Call First

Goddamn, it felt _good_ to get paid. 

Kenny couldn't help himself, pulling away from his mop handle yet again, slipping his hand into his pocket and ripping out his phone. He opened to his messages, shoulders bopping in a thrilled personal jig at the wonderful bank notification. $835.38 just oh-so-lovingly plopped into his checking account. It felt like the salary of a king. _'Almost all of one month's rent,'_ he thought giddily. Craig could get cut off from his parents and end up working as a damn fry cook after school and they'd _still_ be able to afford to live as they were. 

He hummed, pulling the phone back down and sliding it into place with a content sigh, looking back at the mess of soup that Butters had made before they'd closed shop. Even his clumsy ass couldn't break Kenny's spirit today, no siree. His mop sloshed through the minestrone, the cotton fibers twirling about as Kenny swept through abandoned pieces of rice. It felt so foreign, to not have the niggling worry of finances plastered so blatantly in the back of his mind at all times. Maybe he could actually sleep decently, not going to bed groaning to himself over the impending water bill from Craig's far-too-lengthy showers or whether or not he'd be able to keep playing his damn games when that pesky electric fee sidled on into his mailbox. 

Or maybe that was just wishful thinking. Either way, for at least _now_ , he was damn confident that he had a good thing goin'. 

He glanced up at the sound of the door pushing open, smirking at Kyle walking in without raising his eyes, reading over mess of credit slips and his lips moving silently as he scanned. He took quick, calculated steps, turning just before a potential slam into the pantry station and moving towards his office. "Dishes done?" he asked, not breaking his stride. 

"Not yet, almost. Got a few soakin' for a few minutes," Kenny informed him, moving to dunk his mop into the soup-infested water bucket. "Gotta clean Butters' damn disaster." 

Kyle paused his steps, looking at the mess and frowning. "Why did he leave before cleaning that up?" 

"…'Cause I told him it's my job and to go home?" Kenny winced. 

He glanced up at him, giving him a small snort and shaking his head. "You're not the _maid_. He can clean his own damn soup." 

Kenny shrugged, "I don't mind. 'Sides, takes him a damn hour to clean a knife, didn't wanna be here until 5 am watching him picking up rice pieces by hand." 

Kyle considered this, head bobbing in thought. "Good call. Next time, though, yell at him a little." 

He snickered, saluting, "Will do." 

Kyle laughed quietly, continuing his mission to his office. He sighed, the smile fading and the wear of the day starting to settle on him as his back stiffened and his eyelids felt a minuscule bit heavier with each blink. He made way to his desk, tossing the credit slips in front of his computer and groaning. Those were just gonna have to wait until morning. 

A bright white stack caught his eye under his computer monitor, grimacing at the stack of index cards waiting for him with neat, legible notes sprawled across them. He reached over and snatched them from their space, biting his lip at his savings account distribution details, the tiny smiley face with the chef's hat he'd drawn in his dreamy stupor upon writing them. 

He just didn't know what to do. 

Chad had all but put his foot down with his reluctance, and Kyle wasn't sure how to back himself out of this corner. The only resolution he could think of came from him screaming bloody murder until he got his way, doing everything short of rolling around on the ground flailing and screeching like a toddler in a supermarket. Last thing he needed was Chad to be there with that damn sighing disapproval, and it was the last thing he _wanted_. He just had to figure this out, weave together the exact right wording to make Chad _see_ what this meant to him, to mentally omit the details of the cost and Kyle _hiding it from him_. 

There had to be something he could do. 

He shook himself out of his stupor, stepping back and dropping his notecards into the wastebasket beside of him. Square one. He'd just have to start again at square goddamn one. 

A long huff left his chest and he turned on his heel, grabbing his apron from his chair and making way out of his office, tying it around his waist as he moved. He kept his eyes on the floor, making way around Kenny's cleaning and heading towards the handwashing station. 

Kenny looked up and watched him, blinking at the shift in demeanor, the sad frown on his face and the chorus of sighs he couldn't seem to halt as he scrubbed soap up his forearms and between the webbing of his fingers. His mop sloshed as he dunked it back into his bucket, looking around the floor for any missed spots of soup before returning his attention back to his frustrated boss. "Um… You okay?" he ventured. 

Kyle seemed to snap back into the room with the noise, glancing over at his concerned face and clearing his throat as he rinsed off soap residue from his fingertips. "Yeah. Just uh… tired," he shrugged, flipping off the faucet and flinging droplets off into the sink before grabbing the towel next to him. 

Kenny's brow raised skeptically, taking a small step forward as he wiped himself off. He tilted his head, getting a better view of his face and the slight glimmer to his eye. Kyle threw down the towel, moving towards the refrigerator and pulling out ingredients. Kenny hummed, "Yer lyin'." 

He glanced at him, giving a soft, half-hearted smirk. "You've been here two weeks, Ken, don't think you know me so well already." He snagged a handful of parsley sprigs and shut the door, grabbing a bulb of garlic from the counter beside of him. Taking a step back, he tossed his items on the pantry station, clicking his tongue as his eyes searched along the high, open cabinet spaces for his mixing bowl. He clacked his teeth, "You don't have one of my big metal bowls, do you?" 

Kenny nodded, still trying to work out his sudden change in mood. "Sure do, hang on." He grunted, maneuvering the mop and its tub by the handle towards his dish station. He reached into his drying rack, plucking the stainless steel from its hold and moving back towards Kyle tossing his garlic and an onion onto the countertop and snagging a bottle from the shelving underneath. A crackle ran down his spine as he came back upright, sighing and putting his eyes into the crook of his elbow, his fists clenching. 

Ken's mouth twisted, stepping beside him and setting the bowl down with a metallic _clang_ , Kyle's face tearing back and looking up at him. "Are you _sure_?" he pressed. 

Kyle shrugged, "Just been a long day. Let's just wrap this shit up and go home." 

He watched Kyle beginning to steadily drizzle olive oil into his bowl, taking a long breath. "Ya ain't gotta tell me what's _actually_ wrong," he drawled, noting a slight, embarrassed cringe on Kyle's behalf. "But if ya gotta vent, you can go for it," he assured him, turning on his heel and moving back to finish up his waiting dishes. 

Shy eyes watched Kenny from the side as he sauntered off, caught between wanting to just yell that he _really was_ just tired to defend his ego or collapsing onto the drying floor and lamenting the truth to _anyone_ with the patience to listen. 

Kyle shook his head at himself. Kenny wasn't prying like Stan would. He also wasn't just brushing him off as being overly emotional like Chad would. Or maybe he would be, if he had some context, Kyle figured. After all, for all Kenny knew, he was stressed because his entire family had goddamn died in a shipwreck and he was just really good at holding it together. 

The thought made him pause, stuck in a loop of watching his oil pouring into a thick puddle. What if he wasn't so biased in this situation? Would _he_ be outraged if the situation were reversed? Would he be telling Chad to fuck right off wanting to _chance_ thousands of dollars on a piece of paper that meant little to anyone but himself and the small community of members who held the same title? He winced. God, what if _he_ was the unreasonable one in all this? 

Finally tilting his dispenser back upright, he set it aside, body all but automated as he grabbed a bottle of lemon juice, watching the liquid forming around the oil as it left dappled bubbles throughout the concoction. This wasn't good. Maybe he was overreacting. Maybe he was just asking way too much way too soon. Maybe he was jumping the gun. Maybe… _Maybe…_

He flinched violently at the sound of the kitchen's phone ringing away in their silence, echoing against the tile, steel, and stone. He stifled having to gasp in a breath of air, his heart pounding as he was ripped from his self-doubt back into his kitchen. Kyle sighed, setting his bottle down and walking towards the phone by the backdoor, ripping it from its hold and grumbling to himself in annoyance. Another late reservation, he assumed. 

"Luci da giardino, this is Kyle, how may I help you?" he asked, voice taking on that goddamn sweet customer service inflection. 

" _Yes, is this the owner of the establishment?"_

His brow raised, bracing himself for an angry rant over someone claiming to have been poisoned and wanting a refund. "Yes, this is he?" 

" _I'm outside your restaurant right now. From the Department of Health,"_ the man added, as though an afterthought. 

Kyle's eyes closed, free hand going to pinch the bridge of his nose. "It's ten-thirty," he said plainly. 

He could hear the man huffing in probable impatience standing out in the brisk October night air. _"I'm aware. I ran behind my other inspections and have to work you in tonight."_

Taking a long, slow breath, Kyle attempted to calm the ire and panic building in his chest. "Yeah. Yeah, I'll be right there. Have your badge to show me through the door window, please." The other man hung up and he leaned back his head, letting out a long, pained groan. "Not _tonight_ ," he begged, pleading for God himself to derail the L train and take the damn inspector out without scratching his storefront. 

Kenny looked back, confused. "You okay?" 

"No," he pouted, slamming the phone back into its base. "Inspector is here." He dug through his apron pocket, tearing out his cap. "Put your hat on and come with me, I don't like anyone out at the door by themselves at night." 

Kenny snatched his hat on the upper shelf of his station, "Got it," he said, trailing an annoyed Kyle through the kitchen doors through the dining area. 

"Word of advice," Kyle said lowly, all but glaring holes at the man waiting for them beyond the distant door. "Inspectors are a necessary _evil_. So much as rub your eye and they'll slam a violation on you so fucking fast you won't have time to blink. We hate them and they hate us, but unfortunately, we're their bitches. They'll piss you off but you just gotta lube up and bend over. Got it?" 

"Definitely," Kenny said, his own heart clenching in worry. Health inspectors meant looking at _his_ work. He cringed, hoping that first glorious paycheck wasn't going to be his goddamn _last_. 

Kyle came up to the door, frowning at the clink of the man's badge hitting his window and scanning over it. _'Damn,_ ' he thought, _'was hoping he was faking and just wanted to fuckin' murder me.'_ He took a long, deep breath, plastering on as much of a smile as he could muster as he unlocked the door, stepping back with Kenny to let the man through. 

Scanning him up and down, Kenny had an immediate distaste, watching him dust a sprinkling of snow particles off a woolen scarf and dressed like he was set to head down to the opera. 

"I'm sorry it's so late," he said, letting out a dramatic shiver. "Last restaurant took me far longer than expected." 

"Are you _sure_ you can't come back in tomorrow morning first thing and you and I can walk through?" Kyle asked, knowing he was risking having a warrant shoved in his face and a very angry inspector. But he just wanted to go _home_. 

The man offered him a smile tinged with annoyance. "Sorry, full day tomorrow, too. I should've had _your_ inspection done days ago, I've been getting hounded with your profile." 

"Hm, _love_ that I'm punished for my success," Kyle mirrored his expression. He glanced up at Kenny stuck staring with borderline anger at the man's pompous demeanor. "Go ahead and finish the dishes, Ken," he instructed. Kenny looked back at him, offering him a slight nod and heading off to do as told, having to stop himself from slugging the inspector on the way by. He had no clue what to expect, but felt in the air that Kyle was just rigid with his presence, and he felt inclined to feel the same. 

Kyle rolled his eyes at the inspector looking around, clicking his tongue as he dug through his workbag and pulled out a prepped clipboard. "I'm guessing you want to see the bar first." 

"Mhm. And you're Mr… Brofskly?" 

"Broflovski," he frowned. "Yes." 

He turned, holding out his hand, "Off to a bad start, I know. I'm Mr. Fischer." Kyle forced himself to reach forward, returning the grip and holding back a shudder at the chill of his thick palm. "If your record is the same, it won't take long," he promised. "I'll be out of here by 11 at the very latest, provided I don't find a rat in your kitchen." 

"Well that's bad news for the restaurant mascot," Kyle drawled. "He's really grown to like it here." 

Fischer pulled his hand back and cleared his throat, setting off towards the bar. "I'm going to hope that was a joke." 

"Sure, sure," Kyle shrugged, trailing behind him. Usually he was better at this, would be all but silent and taking frantic notes of whatever an inspector would pause upon, but he was just fed up at this point. It was too late for him to be tearing out his hair over a piece of chicken that'd escaped Kenny's sweeping. Oh well, he figured, hopping up on a barstool and watching him in boredom as he checked for his license and proper capping on his wine stock. If he got slammed with a violation just because he was being sarcastic, he'd just appeal it. He'd done it before, and it was a headache of two weeks, but he could do it again if he needed to. 

Fischer hummed, "Where are your fruits?" 

' _In my boxers, you ass,_ ' he thought before pointing to the long mini-fridge riding along the bottom of the back counter. "Second shelf, all in separate drawers." 

He opened the door to verify, nodding as he scanned along the organized row of lemons, limes, and berries. He shifted through the contents, Kyle feeling almost violated having his stock manhandled by someone not on his payroll. "Any other foods kept out here?" 

"Just fruit and mint, Sir, all other food is in the kitchen," he relayed, nearly slamming his forehead into his hand as the man whipped a tape measurer from his deep coat pocket, measuring the distance from the floor to the supply. 

"You're at forty degrees," he informed him, pulling back his measurer and standing up, closing the fridge as he did so. "May want to keep an eye on that." 

"I'll put it on my to-do list," he said, _'along with a million actually important things.'_

Fischer looked at him, jotting down notes. "Who tends usually?" 

"My regular is Baahir Hakeem, he's set for another eight months on his license. My other bartender left a month or so ago, so I've been tending when Baahir is off until I hire a replacement." 

"And your license?" 

"I have another three years left," he shrugged. "I just got my renewal last spring." Fischer nodded, making another note. 

"All the alcohol out here?" he gestured around the cluttered wine rack. 

Kyle nodded back, head bobbing lazily, "'Cept some wine for cooking in the kitchen." 

A quick jot of the pen scurried across a bright yellow sheet and Fischer continued to nod without reason, tongue lightly sticking out of the corner of his mouth. Kyle fixated on it, nose scrunching at the sight of dry white skin resting at the edge of his lip. If he couldn't even notice his own dermatological flaws, how was he going to be the least bit qualified for judging his goddamn restaurant? 

"All right, let's hit the kitchen," Fischer said, not looking up from his notes as he stepped out from behind the bar. Kyle grudgingly slid out of his barstool and took the charge, refusing to let the man with him lead the way into _his_ world. A heavy palm slammed into the swinging door and a loud thud rocketed through the kitchen, Kyle immediately wincing at Kenny flinching in surprise. Kenny's face softened at the frustration he could see steadily building its way up, giving Kyle a small smile of support. 

The inspector's eyes finally came up from his paper, immediately landing on the array of raw foods along the prep counter and giving Kyle a hardly-subtle dirty look. 

Kyle returned the expression, "Yeah, it's 10:40 and I was prepping a marinade. I wasn't expecting to have to walk away from it all of a sudden." 

He was given nothing more than a small sound of dismission before Fischer turned on his heel and began slowly walking along the edges of the kitchen, peering onto stovetop grates and lightly pushing utensils aside to find unwelcome sights. Kyle stood stock still, arms firmly crossed and fingers digging into his skin as he watched him. 

It felt almost _violating_. 

He'd long come to terms with the necessity, had it drilled into him back in culinary school, but any guest speaker they'd had said the same thing: Inspections were the devil's work in a good restaurant. Nothing but migraines and infractions that alone meant nothing, but added up could run a well-standing business straight into the ground. 

The tension flooded the room, and Kenny's shoulders couldn't help but tighten. He didn't exactly know what all was being judged, but he knew that it wasn't just Kyle, but _him_ as well. He'd seen enough goddamn television shows to know that health inspectors came down on sanitation policies like teenagers on a peer's appearance. Every flaw would be shouted from the rooftops and it was a disaster waiting to happen if too many things went wrong at once. 

Fischer began approaching his station and he held back an anxious sound trying to sneak out of his throat, keeping his focus down on the dish in his hand getting dipped in his sanitation sink. 

Dark eyes barely left the notepad to view the sink before another sound of disapproval ebbed between them. "Looking murky," he commented. 

Kenny frowned, straightening up. "I just checked, it's fine for the two dishes I have left," he gestured to the skillets in his basin. 

"Check again," he said curtly. 

Ken could feel Kyle's scowl from across the room as he reached onto his shelf into the worn box of pH tabs, dipping the tail end of one into the water and both he and Fischer watching the color slowly shift to a leafy green. Pulling it out of the water and practically shoving it in his face, Kenny grew a snarky smirk. "6.9. Told you." 

"Mhm, guess you did," he replied, nodding with another note before moving over towards the refrigerators. Ken looked over at Kyle, who gave him a subtle thumbs up and nod before returning to watching the stranger investigating his storage appliances. 

Kenny's cocky stance fell, watching Kyle shifting his weight and gnawing on his lip. Real shitty night for this to be happening, he thought, wondering if Kyle was just going to give up and walk into the alley to chain smoke until his shift tomorrow. Kyle's sight slid back over to him, feeling himself being watched and giving him as much of a smile as he could muster, motioning for him to turn back and finish up. Kenny did so, but not before an overly dramatic silent sigh that Kyle had to stifle a chuckle at. 

Turning from Ken to Fischer, his welcomed smirk dropped at the sight of that damn tape measurer once more being ripped from the inspectors' pocket, eyes rolling hard enough he could've sworn he felt them pop. It was _more_ than obvious the space between his food far exceeded the damn required six inches. Why his damn report didn't have a check-box for that option, Kyle couldn't fathom. 

' _I shoulda been a health inspector,'_ he scoffed to himself. _'Everyone says I'm picky enough. I'd take over the industry and revamp the system so everyone could chill the fuck out. And no one would do inspections past goddamn seven and people could go the fuck home.'_

"Do you have your time and temp record?" Fischer broke through his sweet dreams of getting to his damn bed. 

Kyle sighed, stepping out of his isolated anger bubble and marching towards the fridge, ripping the records contained in the binder sheet off the side and passing them off. "Thought we placed them obviously enough," he drawled. 

Fischer glanced over them, making more notes on his paper before looking back at Kyle with a frown. "Mr. Brolos-" 

" _Broflovski,_ " he corrected again. 

"An attitude won't help you," he finished, handing him back his record and looking back at his notes. 

Kyle managed to swallow down a nice fit of rage as he placed his paper back where it belonged. "Sir, it's nearly 11. I've been on my feet for twelve hours and I still have a marinade to make before I can go home. I'd be much more pleasant if this had come during my actual shift or early in the day and not disrupted my shut down." 

Kenny nodded silently in agreement as he watched the last of his liquids draining from his sinks and took his rag to the interiors. The guy really did _not_ make their night pleasant to dwell in. 

Fischer sighed, obviously at the end of his rope dealing with yet _another_ pissed-off restauranteur. "I'd like to be home, too, you know." 

' _To what? Doubt you have anyone, you stuffy ass_ ,' Kyle thought bitterly, looking over as Kenny put away the last of his dishes. "Ken, if you want, you can head home." 

Kenny looked at him and shook his head, "Nah, I'll stick here until you're done." He bit his lip slightly, _'Need to know if I'm gonna have to sanitize the goddamn blood as pissed as you seem to be.'_ He couldn't say it'd be the most shocking thing to him. He came to the city expecting to die, he couldn't be surprised if it twisted just enough so that he was an accomplice instead. 

Worked for him. 

"Listen," Fischer finally said, turning the clipboard towards Kyle. "Everything here seems to be fine aside from the food on the counter, but we'll chalk that up to more my fault than yours. We'll send someone else for a deeper inspection soon, and we'll call you ahead of time to let you know. You _know_ surprises have to happen sometimes." 

Kyle grumbled, grabbing his pen and signing hurriedly on the waiting line. "Yeah, yeah." 

Fischer turned his board back, ripping off the top yellow sheet and handing it to Kyle. "I'll get out of your hair," he said, Kyle sighing and going to lead him out before Kenny cleared his throat. 

"I got him, work on your thing," he said, waving towards the marinade. Kyle went to protest before backing down. Any time lessened with the man in the wool overcoat was a blessing as far as he was concerned. 

"Have a good night," Kyle said, shaking his clammy hand and immediately turning to go wash the filth from his fingers. 

Kenny gestured for the inspector to follow him and began leading him out of Kyle's haven and back into the dimmed lights of the dining area. Fischer shuffled to put his papers into the bag hanging off his side and hummed lightly. "You really should tell your boss to lighten up in investigations." 

As he reached the front door and unlocked it, he gave him a dry sneer. "I don't think you really understand what yer job does t' people." He ripped open the door to a burst of cold air. "Night." 

Fischer stepped out, shaking his head. "Good night-" Kenny cut him off with the loud thud of the shut door and immediately relocked it, heading back to the kitchen before even seeing if the man began stepping away from the restaurant. He shook his head as he stepped, giving a light look-over for anything he needed to clean more thoroughly before pushing back into the blaring lights of the kitchen. 

Kyle didn't even look up at him, too busy muttering and chunking tomatoes to notice if the kitchen was on fire, let alone Kenny's presence. Ken bit his lip, edging towards him with a small wince. "You okay?" he ventured once more. 

Kyle paused in his slicing and took a long breath. "Just… It's just not what I needed tonight," he said quietly. "I just want to go to bed." 

Kenny offered a meek shrug, "Still pretty early for us." 

"I know, but it's the _principle_ ," Kyle drawled, looking at him as he dumped the juicy massacre into his bowl. "I just wasn't prepared and wasn't in the mood for a drop-in." 

"Better than a critic?" he tried, stepping up to the prep station and watching him grabbing at his parsley. 

Kyle shook his head, hurriedly chopping through the sprigs. "No, only one critic pisses me off, the rest are just another customer. And they're not barging through _my_ kitchen telling me my dishwater is a half a degree too cold or some shit," he rolled his eyes. "Bad word of mouth _can_ shut us down, but a bad grade _will_ shut us down. It's just… nerve-wracking even when you _know_ things are good, ya know?" he looked at him with a tinge of desperation for understanding, a buoy that he could anchor onto to ride the tide of emotion with. 

Kenny didn't quite understand beyond his basic knowledge, but still gave him an agreeing nod. It seemed to calm Kyle down a little more, his slicing slowing and his eyes falling back to his work. "I left all my stuff out," he muttered. 

"What?" Kenny cocked his head. 

Kyle gestured to the counter, "I left all my stuff out. Just completely blanked. He could've slammed me for that. He didn't but… but that _smug look_ ," his face morphed into a scowl. "Fuckin' tryin' to be all _superior_ because I left my garlic out." 

"He's compensatin'," Kenny drawled in assurance. "He ain't got nothin' else t' do so he's gonna just guilt anyone with power. Probably 'as eight bosses and don't like that yer a thousand years younger and ain't gotta answer to no one." 

Kyle finally broke into a smile, a soft chuckle tumbling out of his throat. "You were right." 

"Oh?" 

"Your accent _would_ go well with a Pabst." 

Kenny snorted, giving him an innocent shrug and leaning forward on the counter, watching him continue to decimate his parsley. "Hick's gotta work, too." 

"I should be allowed to write you off as a diversity hire," he rolled his eyes with a grin, finger sliding across the snippets of green on his blade into the bowl. "Seriously, you can head home if you want, I gotta finish this up." 

Ken shook his head, "Nah. You need help with anything?" 

Kyle opened his mouth, ready to protest before shrugging in defeat. More help he got, quicker they could go home. "Can you mince the onion for me?" 

Ken stood back up and nodded, moving over to wash his hands. "So, do those visits happen often or nah?" 

"Nah," he replied. "I've had only two counting tonight's. I get a full inspection twice a year, though, if not more depending on how antsy the department's getting or if there's a false report filed." 

"False report?" he repeated, looking from scrubbing the webbing between his fingers back towards him. 

Kyle nodded, "Yeah. You know how I told you about the people who want comps?" He didn't wait for a reply before pressing forward, "Sometimes, when they don't get comped, and realize there's no corporate to complain to, they'll call the health administration. They'll say they saw a rat or were served a cockroach in their salad or some shit to punish us," he rolled his eyes. 

Kenny stood up and switched off the water, grabbing his towel and drying off his hands. "That's fuckin' insane." 

"Oh no, you haven't heard _the_ insane story, it's legendary," Kyle chuckled, glancing up as Kenny fiddled with grabbing a cutting board and knife. 

"Ooh, do tell." 

"So, some lady was _really_ pissed at me because her meal was expensive, right?" 

"Business as usual," Kenny nodded, walking over to the adjacent side of the prep counter and grabbing the onion, slicing through the end and watching it flop onto the counter. 

Kyle nodded back, "Pretty much. Well, she calls the health department, she tells them that not _only_ did she see us all covered in grime and one of the cooks picking their nose, but that _I_ took the time out of my day to go over and jerk off into her pasta. And then laughed at her about it after she'd finished." 

Kenny couldn't help but cackle, his knife halfway through his onion stopping as he shook his head. "Did she _seriously_ think that'd work?" 

He gave a solemn nod. "I don't have much faith in people over sixty. They're outlandish as shit with their tales of boogers and cum in their food and no one seems willing to reel them in. We just pat their head and go 'sure it happened, grandma' and ship 'em off to the home. Not quickly enough, I might add." 

Kenny returned a hum of agreement. "They put kids on leashes, we should put shock collars on the old bastards. Worldwide hookup so if _any_ of them act up, everyone gets punished." 

"Then they encourage one another to behave, I like it," he nodded with a chuckle before it died off, watching with slow blinks as Kenny fussed with removing the outer skin of his onion and trying to figure out where to place the blade next. "Uh, you okay there?" 

Cheeks bursting into red and his hand growing shaky, Kenny gulped. "Uh… yeah? Just gonna slice it like… _this_?" he held the knife diagonally across the bulb, looking at Kyle's face growing more confused. "This?" he tried again, shifting it a mere few degrees. "Okay no, _this_?" He flipped it onto the cut bottom, blade tracing along the top trying to find an angle that took that expression off Kyle's face. 

Green eyes flickered up to his embarrassed features and Kyle cocked his head. "Do you know what you're doing in a kitchen? At all?" 

"I… I make the best Pop-Tarts in all the land," he muttered, blush deepening at Kyle's quick shift from confusion into a small laugh. 

"Okay, here, let me _show you_ so you don't lose a finger," Kyle teased, reaching under Kenny's grip and swiping the bulb from him. He sliced it in half, handing one back to him. "It's not that scary," he promised, lying his onion down flat and nodding for Kenny to follow suit. 

He vaguely wondered as he guided Kenny through using his knife if this was how _his_ teachers felt, calmed and collected as they relived each step of what was now muscle memory, realizing just _how much_ went into what they now considered to be second nature. Each slice of the onion felt complete, each drop of stinging aroma entering his eyes awakening him. 

With slow, precise instruction and an attentive listener, Kyle felt the tension of earlier drifting off and away, the carbon copy of his inspection forgotten as it laid beside the vegetable sink. His worries about an impending conversation at home faded away, leaving him in a glowing state of complacency. As Kenny slowly, almost over-cautiously continued slicing away at Kyle's dictation and Kyle watched with the contentment of a lesson well-taught, he let out a long, hearty sigh. Every other problem could just dissipate into the background as far as he was concerned. 

He had his kitchen, his _world_ that would always be willing to take him in and comfort him. He supposed that, for now at least, he really couldn't ask for more. 


End file.
